


This Life We Choose

by LadyEnterprise1701



Series: The Doctor and the Teacher [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode AU: 2015 Xmas The Husbands of River Song, Episode Fix-It: s09e12 Hell Bent, Episode Rewrite: s09e10 Face the Raven, Episode: 2014 Xmas Last Christmas, Episode: s09e01 The Magician's Apprentice, Episode: s09e02 The Witch's Familiar, Episode: s09e11 Heaven Sent, F/M, Post-Episode: 2014 Xmas Last Christmas, Post-Episode: s09e08 The Zygon Inversion, Series 9 from the perspective that the Doctor and Clara are definitely space-married, multi-chapter fic, original adventures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 21:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 75,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14756603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyEnterprise1701/pseuds/LadyEnterprise1701
Summary: “No more secrets. No more lies. And no more apologies. From this moment on, we start over. Reset button, back to the beginnin’. Clear?”Fighting dream crabs at the North Pole forced them into admitting they lied to each other in that little coffee shop all those months ago. He'd lied about Gallifrey, she'd lied about Danny. Now he's begging her to run away with him, she's realizing he's all she ever wanted--and nothing in the universe could ever stop them from choosing each other.(Series 9 AU: a compilation of episode tags, fill-in scenes, and re-writes that will eventually grant “Face the Raven” and “Hell Bent” completely different--and happier!--endings.)





	1. Just To Be With You

_Mountains and valleys, and all that will come in between_

_Desert and ocean_

_You pulled me in and together we're lost in a dream_

_Always in motion_

_So I risk it all just to be with you_

_And I risk it all for this life we choose_

_—The Greatest Showman, “Tightrope”_

* * *

 

“Can you really see no difference in me?” Clara Oswald asked. Her voice trembled now—part of getting old, she supposed—and yet it held a half-amused, half-skeptical note as she gazed up at the considerably-younger-looking man in front of her. And _he_ was no Adonis. The flickering shadows generated by fireplace played tricks in the silver of his hair and accentuated the lines of his long, weathered face. 

     Still, he looked pretty much the same as he had when they said goodbye in that sad little coffee shop some sixty years ago, except that his hair was a bit longer—she liked that—and he seemed more comfortable in his own skin now. The Doctor used to be so rigid. Bit frigid, too. 

 _Come to think of it, though, that_ had _been melting out of him by the time we said goodbye. He did let me hug him, after all. Let me tell you, that was a major step in the right direction._

_Looks like he’s kept moving in that direction, too._

     “Clara Oswald,” he said, his thick Scottish brogue so gentle that just saying her name sounded like an endearment, “you’ll never look any different to me.”

     Clara felt the smile creep across her wrinkled face. _Oh, so we’re charming now, are we?_ And yet…oh, _and yet_. If anyone was going to say such a thing, it would be him, wouldn’t it?

 _Maybe it’s a Time Lord thing. Maybe because they see time as just a bunch of non-linear wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey stuff, it really makes no difference how old we petty humans_ look _. All that matters is the age of your soul._

     “So how was it, then?” the Doctor asked, breaking eye contact and wandering to the hearth.  

     “How was what?”

     “The sixty-two years that I missed.”

     “Oh!” she chuckled. “ ‘How was _my_ _life_ ,’ you mean?”

     He took a frame from the mantlepiece, a photo of her with a couple of Czech students in 2031 on the shores of the Danube. “Is there a Mr. Clara?”

     “No. But there were plenty of proposals.”

     The Doctor blinked those large, owlish eyes of his. “They all turned you down?”

     Clara snorted, shot him a look of mock indignation. “I turned _them_ down!”

     He smiled a little but said nothing as he looked away again, his narrow shoulders slumping so subtly that she probably wouldn’t have noticed it if she weren’t practically _drinking_ him in. She may have been old but she wasn’t blind. She’d always thought the Doctor was quite distinguished, but now (to her admittedly biased eyes) he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen.  

And yet she was also so, so afraid that he might vanish if she looked away just for a second. 

     Clara didn’t think she could bear that. Not again.  

“I traveled,” she said softly. “I taught in every country in Europe. I learned to fly a plane!”

     He persisted with that sad smile of his. “You’ll know what to do, then, the next time the Great Intelligence takes over the WiFi on a jumbo jet.”

     Clara smirked. “It was a little private plane, Doctor, not a jumbo jet.”

     “Learn to fly one, you can fly the other in a pinch,” he teased. 

     She shrugged gingerly—all her muscles seemed to ache these days, especially with the cold—and waited as he lowered himself to a seat on the arm of the sofa.

     “Regrets?” he asked.

     “Oh, hundreds,” she chuckled. “I just wish there were time for a few more.”

     “Yeah, those are the best ones,” he said softly, his gaze drifting down to the holiday paraphernalia scattered over the table in front of her. “ _Ah_. A Christmas cracker—we should do one!”

     Clara nodded, eagerly reaching for one end of the glimmering cracker. As he gripped the other end a memory flashed through her slowing mind…a windowless room on a faraway wintry planet, where strange voices whispered through a shimmering crack in the wall and war raged outside and two hands—one old, one young—grasped at a Christmas cracker.

     _I was so young then, wasn’t I? Quite the innocent. And I loved him so._

_Some things never change, do they?_

     “No one ever matched up to Danny, eh?” the Doctor asked, his eyes on the bright foil paper.

     Clara looked up, her frail heart beating just a little faster at the question. The question seemed a bit too…pointed. Very unlike him, too. The Doctor rarely posed a question this significant without looking his subject dead in the eye with his unflinching, unnerving honesty. 

     “There was one other man,” she murmured. “But that would’ve never worked out.”

     The Doctor glanced up. “Why not?”

     Clara hesitated just a beat before tipping her head back. “He was impossible.”

     Painful comprehension flashed over his face. Part of her ached to see it; another part felt oddly relieved that she wouldn’t have to explain herself any further. The word “impossible” had been enough. 

     _“My Impossible Girl…Clara, my Clara…”_

The Doctor covered her hand with his own. His palm felt warm and smooth over her papery, blue-veined skin. 

     “We should do this every Christmas,” he murmured, a gentle twinkle in his eye. 

     “Because every Christmas is ‘Last Christmas.’ ” 

     It came out of her mouth like a recitation; she wasn’t quite sure where it came from. The Doctor looked as if he once again understood, yet wished he didn’t. Gently, he helped her pull her side of the cracker. It came apart with a loud _pop_ and Clara gave a soft cry of delight, but the Doctor leaned back as if the sound had hurt him. His shoulders hunched in pain and Clara was suddenly afraid that he might start crying. 

     “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was stupid. I should’ve come back earlier. I wish I had.”

     _Oh, Doctor_. Clara’s throat burned. What a full, amazing life she’d lived, and yet right now she wished bitterly that she was young again—young enough to spring out of the chair and and wrap her arms around him and rest his head against her heartbeat and bury her face in his silver hair and beg him to forgive her for all _her_ stupid, stupid mistakes. _For lying about Danny…for lying to myself…for being such a control freak—_

“Do you, Doctor?” a voice boomed from the doorway. “How _much_ do you wish that?”

     Clara glanced away from the Doctor and almost screamed at the sight of Santa Claus himself —because who else walks around with a white beard and rosy cheeks and dresses all in red and white?— in her living room, looking impishly between the aging Human and the speechless Time Lord. The Doctor sat up very straight, his eyebrows doing something akin to gymnastics.  

     “No,” he rasped. “You mean I’m still—”

     “Wakey-wakey!” Santa chuckled. 

     _Dreaming. You’re just dreaming._

Clara blinked and the house started to crumble. Or rather, it started to _fade_. The fire sputtered, the Christmas cracker turned to dust beneath her gnarled fingers, and a sleepy warmth began to envelop her as her head slumped forward and…

     _“Clara! Clara!”_

Something huge and warm and living and squishy ripped off her face and Clara bolted upright with a ragged gasp. A soft mattress stretched beneath her, warm blankets covered her flailing legs, she was still in her pyjamas, her hair clung to her sweating face—

     And the Doctor leaned over the end of her bed, his eyes wide and wild with desperation. Clara swallowed, pressed a hand to her pounding chest.

     “Doctor? Am I…young?” she whispered.

     “No idea!” he cried. He raced to the chest of drawers before she could process and grabbed a little handheld mirror. Clara snatched it from him and peeled her hair away from her face. 

“Is that any good?” the Doctor asked eagerly.

     “Oh, that’s good,” Clara whispered. There it was, all there, all good: dark hair, oversized eyes, the much-too-round face with just a few wrinkles yet at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She was twenty-eight again, not ninety-one. 

     _Oh, thank God. Not that I’ll mind being old when it comes to that but ohhhhhh, don’t age me_ _like that again without some time to get used to i—_

Clara glanced up, did a double-take. The Doctor stared at her, his long, slender hands clasped anxiously in front of him. It was the way he looked at her, though, that made her heart start thumping in a way it hadn’t done in months. 

     “The TARDIS is outside,” he whispered. 

     Her heartbeat decided to kick it up a notch. “S-so?”

     “So,” the Doctor replied, moving slowly back to the end of her bed. “All of time and all of space is sittin’ out there in a big blue box. _Please_. Don’t even argue.”

     _Don’t even argue. Don’t even try to say you don’t deserve this, don’t even try to bring up the past and all the angry, bitter words and the mistakes we both regret._

_The TARDIS is waiting._

_Don’t waste her time, or ours._

Clara smiled so wide, her cheeks hurt. The Doctor raised his eyebrows and held out his hand in a hopeful, pleading gesture. Clara slipped her palm against his, bounced forward on the mattress, and pressed her lips to his cheek. 

     He didn’t lurch back. Didn’t start bellowing about how he wasn’t a hugging or kissing person anymore. He just looked at her like he couldn’t get enough of her. 

     _Like he’s been just as lonely for me as I’ve been for him these past six months._

     “Merry Christmas, Doctor,” she said—firm, decided, _joyful_. 

     “Merry Christmas, Clara Oswald,” the Doctor replied—relieved, determined…and very, very joyful himself. 

     And then he flicked his gaze to the side, all mischievous and daring and _oh_ , how she’d missed that look. Clara giggled and scrambled off the bed, tugging him towards the door. She didn’t even bother to grab her shoes as they raced out of her flat, down the stairs, and out into the big grassy field where he’d parked the big blue box in the snow. Its pale lights twinkled cheerfully, as if whispering its very own _Welcome home._

And still the Doctor held her hand—tightly, as if he never wanted to let go. 

 

————

 

“Well, look at you, all happy!” Clara squealed. “That’s rare!”

     “You know what’s rarer?” the Doctor rejoined, wearing a grin the likes of which she’d never seen before on this face. “Second chances! I never get a second chance, so what happened this time? I don’t even know who to thank.”

     Clara threw open the TARDIS door. “Santa Claus?”

     The Doctor shot her a playful look. “Do _you_ believe in Santa Claus?”

     “After tonight? Yeah, ‘course I do!” Clara cried, letting go of his hand and running as fast as she could to the TARDIS console. “If only for one reason.”

     “And what’s that?” the Doctor asked, shutting the door behind him.

     Clara twirled the pad of her bare foot, tingling now from running in the snow, and faced him. “Because he obviously knew what I was wishin’ for.”

     The Doctor smiled a warm, mysterious smile that made her insides do weird things and came closer. “Be careful what you wish for, Clara Oswald. You might get more than you bargained for.”

     “Oh, I’m countin’ on it,” Clara whispered.  

     He chuckled. He was so close now, she could touch him if she wanted to—and oh, she wanted to—she wanted to hug the daylights out of him—but she clamped her hands on the console behind her and tipped her head back. The Doctor placed himself right in front of her, jammed his hands into the pockets of his trim black trousers, and smirked.

     “So. I’m impossible, am I?”

     Clara quirked an eyebrow. “Who says I was talking about _you_?” 

     Poor Doctor. His bravado faltered in a moment of abashed confusion before Clara had mercy on him and burst out laughing 

     “Of course I was talking about you, you daft old man! And yes--you are absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent impossible.”

     The Doctor recovered himself, flashing a grin that she found irresistible. “Ah, but you love it,” he drawled, sauntering off to one side of the console. 

     “I _know_ I love it,” Clara replied, following him. “And I have missed you _so much_.”

     The Doctor turned towards her again as she stopped in front of him, a gentle look settling into his face. “Not as much as I’ve missed you, Clara Oswald.” 

     Normally she’d think up some sassy retort, something to fluster him and keep the mood light, but with him looking at her like that coherent sentences were next to impossible. Clara contented herself with beaming up at him instead, wondering if she looked as stupidly happy as she felt, hoping he didn’t think she’d finally gone and lost her head. He smiled back, looking away only when the TARDIS made a questioning noise overhead. He reached for one of the levers on the console. 

     Clara drew an excited breath. _Here we go…off to find something awesome, just like old times._ Even the TARDIS warbled in anticipation—but the Doctor paused, his eyes skimming over the sentient console and the flashing lights and the doors on the other side of the room. Concerned by the sudden change in his mood she stepped closer, touched his sleeve. 

     “Doctor? What is it?”

     The Doctor pressed his lips into a thin, firm line. He turned abruptly, looking her in the eye. 

     “Did you mean it?” he asked.

     Clara shook her head, confused. “Mean what?”

     “About the Mr. Clara business. About how there was only one other man who could match up to Danny, but it would’ve never worked out.”

     Clara blinked, all the color rushing to her face. “ _Oh_ …”

     “Because if you did mean it…” The Doctor paused, and her heart jumped into her throat as he took a step closer and reached for her hand. “I’m sure that that one other man would do everything in his power to make sure it _did_ work, even if he can be an absolute idiot sometimes. Because he knows… _now_ …that he can hardly breathe if he doesn’t have you beside him every step of the way.”

     Either the TARDIS had upped the temperature in the console room by thirty degrees, or Clara was blushing like mad. She gulped, rubbed her thumb nervously along his skin.

     “Is this, umm…is this a proposal, Doctor?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

     “I—”

     “Because I’ll have you know, I’d say ‘yes’ in a heartbeat.”

     This time, the Doctor blinked in surprise. “You would?”

     Clara nodded once, then nodded again more fiercely and made herself smile before he could misinterpret the tears springing to her eyes. For the second time that evening the Doctor raised his eyebrows in disbelief, and then—

     He _laughed_. He laughed, as loud and clear and heartfelt as if he’d finally accepted the ways of Robin Hood and his merry men, and the sound echoed in the chamber like music. Clara laughed, too, in utter disbelief—and the next thing she knew she was shrieking with glee and locking her arms around his neck as he lifted her off the floor and spun her around in front of the console. When he finally set her back on her feet neither of them let go. They just looked at each other for a moment, maybe two, gasping for breath…

     And then he bent low and caught her lips in a long, hard, hungry kiss. Clara inhaled sharp and held on tight. She felt like floating, singing, jumping over a couple waterfalls, running half a dozen marathons, laughing until her ribs cracked— _because_ _when in the name of all that’s good and holy did he learn how to kiss like_ that _?!_

When he finally let her go she shuddered for air. He rested his forehead against hers.

     “Okay?” he rasped. 

     “Mm-hmm,” she whimpered, nodding with her eyes closed. “Are…are you a kissing person now?”

     “May have re-read the manual a few weeks ago out of sheer curiosity.”

     “Must’ve been quite a manual.”

     The Doctor chuckled. Clara opened her eyes as he smoothed her hair back from her face. 

     “No more secrets,” he whispered. “And no more lies.”

     “No more lies,” Clara whispered back. “Oh, Doctor, I’m so sorry—”

     “ _And no more apologies._ ” His blue eyes sharpened as the old, firm edge crept back into his voice. “From this moment on, we start over. Reset button, back to the beginnin’. Clear?”

     Clara choked out a tearful laugh. “Clear.”

     The Doctor gave a single nod and relaxed, holding her gently while she closed her eyes and sighed with her arms still around his neck. _This_ wasn’t a dream—this was real. She was back in the TARDIS. The Doctor who’d claimed he wasn’t a hugging person had just kissed her, he’d just asked her to marry him in his own round-about, Doctor-ish way, they’d forgiven each other for all their lies, and they had all of time and space ahead of them.

     Beat that for any old present underneath any old tree.  

     “I love you,” she whispered, so softly that she almost didn’t hear herself and only felt her lips forming the words. 

     But he must’ve heard it, because his response left her no reason to doubt that the feeling was mutual.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just recently re-watched "Last Christmas," and those last five minutes or so are, in my opinion, extremely revealing when it comes to the Doctor and Clara's relationship. For her to admit that she would've married him and then for him to beg her to run away with him all over again...I just think it's quite possible (especially when you look at Series 9 as a whole) that they took their relationship to a whole new, intimate, overtly romantic level after "Last Christmas." 
> 
> This is my first Doctor Who story, btw. Hope I got the voices right :D


	2. The Rest of Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Clara follow through on that proposal, establish some ground rules for their future, and celebrate Christmas with the Oswalds. Takes place immediately after the previous chapter, post "Last Christmas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, that previous chapter was originally posted as a standalone "Last Christmas" epilogue...buuuuut it decided it wanted to be the beginning of a multi-chapter story, haha! Some of the chapters will be episode tags or fill-ins, and some of them will be outright, unashamed AUs--all of them taking place during Series 9 or (in the case of the AUs) bringing in some elements from Series 10. And all of them, of course, will follow my personal headcanon that the Doctor and Clara are 100% space married in Series 9. 
> 
> I'll update as I finish each one--which means it may not follow a consistent schedule, but hopefully I'll finish several chapters over the summer!

_So level up and love again_

_Call it any name you need_

_Call it your two-point-oh, your rebirth, whatever--_

_So long as you can feel at all_

_So long as all your doors are flung wide_

_Call it your Day Number One in the rest of Forever._

_—Vienna Tang, “Level Up”_

* * *

 When he said he wanted to show her something she hadn’t expected him to half-lead, half-drag her to _this_ room. The stone walls seemed to whisper gentle secrets and all the knick-knacks, dusty furniture, and rickety shelves scattered about the small space gave her a strong (but not unpleasant) sense of deja vu. 

     And then she remembered. Clara stopped, her fingers tightening around the Doctor’s hand. 

     “I know this place,” she whispered, her smile broadening. “I ran in here that time—not too long after we started traveling together—you were stuck in the TARDIS’ maze with those garbage-hauler brothers and I was runnin’ from the…the creepy-zombie-future-me’s, the ones from the alternate timeline.”  

     The Doctor raised his eyebrows. “You shouldn’t remember that.”

     “But I _do_. I got my memories back at Trenzalore, remember?”

     He shut the door behind them and started to grin. “ _All_ of your memories?”

     Clara swung their hands gently between them. “Maybe.”

     “My name?”

     She tossed her head. “ _Maybe_.”

     The Doctor gave her a part-curious, part-skeptical look. Clara pursed her lips and decided to let the mystery hang for a bit, casting her gaze around the small room instead. 

     “What is this place, anyway?” she asked softly. “Is it a storage room?”

     “Ah, well, I suppose you could call it that,” he answered, his voice equally soft. “I keep my…artifacts. Here. Things that I don’t dare leave lyin’ about. Things that are too precious to be exposed to the cold light of day.”

     He stepped forward, gently tugging her with him. She followed willingly and even drew close to him, clasping his hand and stroking his arm with the other. The Doctor kept his sharp blue-grey eyes on the contents of the room, sweeping slowly, taking it all in. It looked as if he hadn’t been in here in a while, and he had to familiarize himself with it before he could fetch whatever he wanted her to see. 

     “Who did the cradle belong to?” Clara whispered. 

     He blinked, looked down at her, shot a glance over his shoulder at the cradle with the delicate silver mobile dangling above it. “My son.”

     “On Gallifrey?”

     He nodded, still staring at it. “He died in the Last Great Time War. He was Susan’s father.”

     Clara fingered his sleeve. “And your wife?”

     He glanced down at her at that and rubbed her hand with his thumb, as if he sensed how much courage she’d had to muster to ask such a question right now. After all, he’d just asked _her_ to stay with him for as long as they both should live, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health and all the rest of it. 

     “You know what I think?” he asked softly. 

     “Hmm?” Clara murmured, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. 

     “I think she _might_ have been one of your echoes.”

     She lifted her head with a start. He smiled sadly and brushed his lips over her forehead before something caught his eye; “Ah!” he gasped and hurried forward, pulling her along. When he let go of her hand Clara hung back, folding her arms over her chest and standing eagerly on tiptoe to see what he was doing.

     “What is it?” she asked. 

     “This, my Clara, is a box,” he deadpanned, sliding it off the highest shelf with his long, nimble fingers.

     “I can see that. What’s inside?”

     He didn’t answer right away. He looked hard at her underneath those incredible eyebrows of his ( _I missed them almost as much as I missed his voice, didn’t I?_ ) before dropping his gaze again and opening the lid with slow reverence. Clara didn’t dare step forward. _Give him his space. He needs it._

“When River and I married, it was all done very hastily. We didn’t have a choice, really, given the circumstances, but…I always regretted that I couldn’t have given her somethin’ more …tender.” He shrugged, still looking down at the contents of the box. “ ‘Course, given that it was River, she’d have preferred the more adventurous version.”

     Clara smiled but said nothing, remembering the hologram of a saucy but obviously brilliant woman with twinkling eyes and unbelievably curly hair who’d saved them both at Trenzalore. She wondered, suddenly, if River would’ve liked her. If River would’ve approved of…this. The Doctor began walking towards her, eyes down until he reached her. When he lifted his gaze, the look in his eyes took her breath away. 

     “I’m not one for sentiment, Clara,” he said in a low voice. 

     “I know,” she whispered. “And that’s okay…”

     “But I’m well aware of the significance of symbolism. Which is why I don’t want to do this the same with you as I did it with River.”

     She frowned. “Do what, exactly?”

     He swallowed, set the box down on a nearby piece of furniture that looked like a pedastal, and lifted out a shimmering, dark blue, narrow cloth. He ran it between his fingers; Clara reached out and touched it, too, mesmerized by it, and realized it was incredibly soft. 

     “This,” he said in a very, very quiet voice, “is a Gallifreyan bonding cloth.”

     Clara stared at him. “ ‘Bonding?’ ”

     He nodded, meeting her gaze. “When Time Lords marry, they clasp hands, like this…”

     Her heart started racing all over again as he took her left hand in his right one and laced their fingers, palm to palm. 

     “Then…they wrap the cloth around their hands…like this.” He opened their hands enough to slip one end of the cloth between their palms before winding the cloth securely around their fingers first, making his way down to their wrists. When maneuvering the cloth with one hand got difficult, Clara quickly grasped it and continued the process, meeting the Doctor’s surprised eyes with a determined, eager look of her own. 

     “Then what?” she asked a little breathlessly once their hands were firmly bound, forcing them to stand so close that they were mere cenimeters from each other. 

     “Well, then…” he murmured, his gaze flickering all over her face before settling in the general area of her mouth and chin, “…then they make their promises.”

     “Wedding vows?”

     “Exactly.” He hesitated and she was pretty sure he was beginning to blush. “Love isn’t _just_ an emotion, Clara. It’s a promise. The most powerful promise anyone could ever make, and I…I’ve never made that promise to anyone else since…and certainly not with _this_ face…and I…I hardly know where to start…”

     Clara felt her eyes starting to prick and burn, but decided once again to keep her mouth shut. Her Clever Boy had been far more poetic, far more willing to express his emotions even if it meant he had to stammer and blush and shift from one foot to another like a schoolboy with a hopeless crush—but that didn’t mean that her Daft Old Man was any less capable of powerful emotion. In fact, he might be _more_ passionate, more keenly aware of the pains and joys of life. 

     He just needed to feel safe enough to say so _…and I want him to feel safe with me._

The Doctor pulled in a deep breath and she knew it was coming when he squeezed her hand—the one tied to his own—very tightly. 

    “There was somethin’ you said once, about Courtney Woods, and I’ve never forgotten it,” he said in a bit of a rush. “You said you had a duty of care. You said it was like a promise to take care of her. Make sure she got home safe. And if love is a promise then I promise _you…_ Clara Oswald. _I_ have a duty of care—towards _you_ —because I…I…”

     “Shh,” Clara whispered, laying a finger on his lips. “Don’t feel like you have to say it. I don’t need you to say it. As long as I know that you _do_ , that’s all I’ll ever need.” 

     His gaze never faltered. “ _I do_.”

     “Then that’s good enough for me.” She lowered her finger and laid her palm again his chest. “And I promise _you_ , Doctor…all my yesterdays and tomorrows and everything in between. I can’t promise you forever because I’ll never live that long and I think we both know it—but I _can_ promise you my little lifetime. Because I love you.”

     Her voice cracked and she pressed her lips together to keep from bursting into tears. The Doctor’s face was utterly heartbreaking, happiness and grief and bewilderment all rolled into one expression and she’d _never_ seen him look like this, so completely vulnerable. He lifted his free hand and caught a tear that rolled down her cheek with his thumb. 

     “I thought you weren’t going to say that to anyone ever again,” he asked, hoarse. 

     Clara sniffled, smiled as bravely as she could. “Danny knew. He knew how much I loved you, even if I didn’t. He’d have known it was a promise I could never keep.”

     “Some promises are like that.”

     “Yeah.”

     “Not this one, though,” he whispered, squeezing her hand again. 

     She laughed tearfully and shook her head. “No. Not this one.”

 

 ———— 

 

She woke the next morning to the sensation of cool sheets beneath her, a heavy comforter tucked under her arm, and a soft, comforting hum overhead. Clara stirred, pushed her hair away from her face, opened an eye. 

     A grey expanse of ceiling she didn’t recognize greeted her first. She frowned, sleepy and uncertain…and her hand brushed against something warm and solid and _living_ right next to her. Both her eyes popped open this time as she lifted her head with a start—and she remembered. 

     As soon as she saw the Doctor lying beside her sleeping soundly—and she’d _never_ seen him asleep since that time they went to the end of the universe and he got knocked out cold—she remembered _everything_. 

     The North Pole. Father Christmas (plus two cheeky elves). Shona. Dream Crabs. _Danny_ … 

     And _him_. Always _him_. Her brilliant, sharp-eyed, compassionate, impatient, kind-hearted, erratic, broody, crazy, wonderful Doctor. The man who stopped the monsters. The man she’d missed and longed for for six long bloody months. 

     The man she’d just married, in an ancient Gallifreyan ceremony with only his sentient ship for a witness. 

     _Not bad for a girl from Blackpool_ , she thought wryly as she reached out and ran her fingertips through the darker curls close to his face. He slept on, lying on his side facing her. He looked so much younger when he was asleep…so peaceful. Clara propped herself on her elbow and leaned over him until he began to stir. When he opened his eyes and looked at her in momentary (and very adorable) confusion, she smiled.

     “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she whispered. “It’s Christmas morning.”

     “On Earth, maybe,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and shifting onto his back. “It’s Christmas every morning in the Time Vortex, if you want it to be. Nothin’ special.”

     Clara giggled. “Not for you, maybe. _My_ first Christmas in the Time Vortex, though? Totally special.”

     He smiled, eyes still closed, and slid an arm around her. Clara scooted down, rested her head against his chest. When she felt his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over her arm she sighed in deep contentment. 

     “I’ve missed you, Clara Oswald,” he murmured.

     She nuzzled her cheek against him. “Don’t worry, daft old man. I’m staying right here.”

     He chuckled softly, pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Clara closed her eyes, thanking Santa or whatever benevolent entity that had seen fit to throw a couple of lovesick, time-traveling idiots right back together. 

 

 ————

 

She must’ve dozed, because the next thing she knew she was waking up all over again—and this time she was alone. Clara sat up with a start, touched the pillow next to hers. It was still warm. Rubbing her eyes she threw off the blankets, snatched her blue robe off the end of the bed, and wrapped it tightly around herself before venturing out of the bedroom. 

     The TARDIS had obviously woken up on the right side of the bed this morning. The winding corridors led her straight to the ship’s small kitchen (which, like the rest of her, could expand, modernize, and equip itself according to the circumstances and needs), from which came a quiet clatter and string of muttered, exasperated dialogue. Clara stepped inside and froze in delight at the sight of the Doctor in nothing but a t-shirt and plaid trousers, drawing a small skillet out of a cupboard before slamming the door behind him. He stopped abruptly at the sight of her. 

     “Oh, hello,” he said, as breezily as if they _hadn’t_ just reunited, cheated death, and gotten married in the span of a few hours. “I’m looking for something to eat but it seems I’ve been a bit…lax on the grocery shopping of late. What do you say to coffee and cereal?”

     Clara blinked, snapped her slack jaw shut, and frowned. “Why do you need a skillet for cereal?”

     “I don’t know. I think I just needed somethin’ in my hand.”

     “You’re fidgety, you know that?”

     “So I’ve been told,” the Doctor deadpanned, shooting her a wry look as he slid the skillet onto the cold stove. Clara couldn’t help the smile that broke out over her face at the sight of that look. She sprinted across the kitchen, threw her arms around his neck. He stiffened out of sheer habit for just a moment before leaning back comfortably against the countertop and resting his hands on her waist. 

     “Fidgety and obstinate and _such_ a downer sometimes,” Clara murmured, “but I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

     He smirked. “Stubborn Boss and Fidgety Downer—sounds like we make quite the pair.”

     “Oh yeah, and _that’s_ leavin’ out the good bits,” Clara laughed, kissing him happily between phrases. “You’re also a brilliant…hilarious… _kind_ …determined…fidgety downer. Come on, your turn—say all the nice things about me now.”

     “You’re brilliant,” he murmured.

     “Thank you!”

     “And always brave.” This time _he_ kissed her, quick but gentle. “Always funny.” Another little kiss that warmed her down to her toes. “Always _exactly_ what I need.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her a third time. “ _Perfect_.”

     “ ‘Perfect’ might be a little much,” Clara laughed breathlessly.

     “Ah, but you’re perfect for me,” he replied, tapping the point of her nose with his finger, and the look on his face was so earnest and _affectionate_  that she could’ve sworn it was the Clever Boy talking. 

 

 ————

 

“We’re gonna have to establish some ground rules.”

     Clara looked up from her half-finished bowl of cereal (Fruit Loops—the Doctor _would_ have Fruit Loops and no other cereal else whatsoever on the TARDIS) and a cup of coffee so strong, she was pretty sure it could knock even a Martian Ice Warrior’s head off. “Ground rules?”

     The Doctor nodded. He hadn’t let go of her left hand since the moment they sat at the table, not even while he consumed his own breakfast. She noticed now that he rubbed the top of her hand with quick, nervous strokes. Clara reached for her coffee and tried to lighten the mood.

     “Okay, then, I'll make the first one. I’m your wife now, right?”

     “I should hope so, after last night.”

     She blushed, let the rather sly comment pass. “So does that make me…you know. Lady of the house?”

     The Doctor glanced at her a little sharply, then up at the ceiling. “To a _certain_ extent.”

     Clara smirked. “Fair enough. I won't usurp the TARDIS. All I want is clearance to do the shopping from henceforth and forevermore. Your larder’s a pathetic affair, Doctor. No wonder you’re thin as a rail, living on coffee and Fruit Loops for the last six mon—”

     “Fifty years,” he blurted. She stopped, eyes widening; he looked away. “It’s been fifty years for _me_. Six months for you.”

     “Oh.” Clara swallowed, stunned. The thought of him going that long alone… _and oh, he never does well alone._ She shifted their clasped hands so she could rub his with her thumb this time in a silent, heartfelt apology. He glanced at her again and forced a small, tight smile. 

     “I give you full permission to do with the kitchen as you please—so long as you don’t let any soufflés explode in the oven.”

     “Agreed.” Clara squeezed his hand and smiled. “Your turn.”

     “Ground Rule Number Two.” He leaned close, looked her in the eye. “We can’t tell anyone.”

     “We can’t tell anyone what?”

     “About…what happened last night.”

     Clara snorted. “I _assure_ you, I’m not the kind who goes around sharing  _those_ details—”

     “No, I mean about _us_.”

     “Oh. _Ohhhh._ ” Clara sat back, stunned again. “We can’t tell anyone we’re…space-married.”

     The Doctor grimaced. “ ‘Space-married?’ What’s that supposed to mean? People never put the word space in front of something just because astronomy and the cosmos are only slightly involved—and certainly not when it comes somethin’ as important as…as…relationships!”

     “Hate to break it to you, Doctor, but they kinda do.” 

     “Well, it’s stupid,” the Doctor muttered. Clara giggled, and his face slowly but surely softened out of the disgusted scowl and into something far more amused and contented. She took a sip of coffee, watching him over the rim of her mug. 

     “It’s gonna be hard to keep a secret like that,” she said. “Especially from my family. They’ve been practically hovering over me ever since…”

     “Since Danny died?”

     She nodded, pushed the empty mug away. “That wasn’t even my flat you visited last night, in case you didn’t notice. It was my dad’s house. My gran said, and I quote, ‘No girl in your state should have to spend Christmas Eve alone’—so he invited me to stay the night. Linda wasn’t thrilled, but Gran _was._ ” Clara paused, shot him a mischievous look. “Of course, even _she_ would have a small stroke if she knew where and how I’d spent my Christmas night.”

     “Precisely. Not to mention, every enemy I’ve ever made in all of time and space would cackle with glee at the thought of the Oncoming Storm having a weakness like _this_. And I already know what that’s like, Clara. It’s terrifying.”

     Clara remembered River and looked down. “ _Am_ I a weakness, Doctor? Am I a…a liability?”

     He scooted his chair closer, clasped her hand with both of his. “You are my weakness, Clara, yes. The very thought of ever losing you again makes me…afraid. But you will never, _ever_ be a liability. You are my ballast. My Impossible Girl.”

     “Never send me away,” she whispered. 

     “Never.”

     “Promise?”

     “Promise.”

     “Rule Number One: the Doctor lies. I haven’t forgotten Trenzalore, y’know.”

     He looked her in the eye and pressed her hand between his palms. “I promise you, Clara Oswald, I will _never_ send you away again.”

     He brought her hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. They gazed at each other for a long, silent moment before she cleared her throat and tossed her head.  

     “Ground Rule Number Three. I stay here now. No more of that Wednesday nonsense, okay?”

     “Good, I was hopin’ you’d bring that up. What about your flat?”

     “Oh, I’ll keep it for when you’re runnin’ late saving a universe or somethin’ and can’t pick me up. Besides, it would look pretty funny if I just up and left with nowhere else to go, wouldn’t it? Our space-married secret wouldn’t last long.”

     “It’s not called—” he began indignantly, but stopped himself as soon as she started giggling. He relaxed, raised an eyebrow. 

     “Ground Rule Number Four,” he said. “No little Time Tots makin’ any surprise appearances.”

     Clara blushed, sat up straight. “Because you don’t want one, or because you’re worried about having another weakness?”

     He hesitated, but she saw the answer in his eyes before he ever spoke. “The latter. Definitely the latter.”

     She nodded slowly. “Okay. But you know as well as I do that any…precautions we take won’t be foolproof.”

     He looked rather sheepish at that. “True.”

     “So if we’re ever surprised…” Clara paused, pulled in a long, bracing breath to quell the sudden excited and oddly hopeful flutter in her chest. “…then I think that’d just be a sign that we _need_ a Time Tot.”

     He nodded, his eyes skittering down to their hands. Clara waited a moment, letting it sink in for him before she gave his hands a playful squeeze.

     “You know what you’re gonna have to do?” she whispered. 

     “…What?” he asked slowly, cautiously. 

     “Take me home for Christmas.” 

     “Why?” he demanded, a bit cross.

     She let out an exaggerated sigh. “ _Because_ , Doctor, my gran and my dad and Linda are _expecting_ me to come downstairs and open my presents _and_ enjoy a big Christmas breakfast! I don’t want them to go upstairs and find me gone—or worse, to find me steppin’ out of a blue police box that _somehow_ fits perfectly in the corner of my bedroom, lookin’ like the cat that ate the canary. No no no—you’ve got to take me back at precisely seven o’clock on _Christmas morning…_ and then _you’ve_ got to drop by at nine-ish for breakfast.”

     “ _I’ve_ got to—? Wait, no, Clara—”

     Clara clamped her free hand over his mouth. The Doctor froze.

     “Ground Rule Number Five,” she said, smiling wide. “I _can_ keep our secret, but I _don’t_ know how good I’ll be at keepin’ my happiness off my face. I’ve got to have _some_  explanation for that.”

     “Which will be…?” 

     She drew her hand from his mouth and cupped his cheek in her palm instead. “That I have the most wonderful friend a girl could ever ask for, of course.”

 

 ———— 

 

When she opened the TARDIS door and peeked out, her bedroom at Gran’s house was exactly as she’d left it—except for the digital alarm clock on the nightstand, which now read _6:59_. Clara looked at the Doctor over her shoulder and grinned. 

     “Perfect timing,” she whispered. “Show up again at 8:59 and I’ll reward you handsomely.”

     He chuckled. Clara moved to step outside, paused, thought a moment, and shut the door. The Doctor gave her a confused look before she wrapped her arms around his torso and rested her head on his chest. 

     “Do me a favor?” she murmured. “Wait two hours. Don’t just skip ahead to nine o’clock on Christmas Day, 2015. Let the two hours pass for you, same as they’ll be passing for me.”

     To her surprise he didn’t argue with her. He just held her close and buried his lips in her hair.

     “Whatever you say, Boss,” he whispered. Clara beamed up at him. He grinned and bent low, kissing her a few times before jerking his head towards the doors. 

     “Better get moving,” he teased. “Don’t want your gran to find you blushin’ up to your eyes.”

     “Shut up,” she whispered, standing on tiptoe to snatch one last kiss before she darted through the doors and shut them behind her. She backed away, biting her lip as the TARDIS whooshed and faded away. 

     “Clara? What’s all that racket?”

     She whirled at the sound of her stepmom’s voice. “Nothin’, Linda! Just…getting ready!” 

     “Well, hurry up! Your father sent me to wake you—we’re all waiting downstairs!” 

     Clara closed her eyes and pulled in a breath, forcing herself to swallow back an impatient reply of her own. Not even Linda could ruin her joy this morning.

 

 ————

 

Clara felt a surge of childlike delight as soon as she clambered downstairs in a fresh, festive jumper and saw Gran already sitting near the tree with her coffee and Dad and Linda arranging the glittering presents just-so. 

     “Merry Christmas, Dad,” she said happily, kissing his cheek. “Linda.”

     “Clara,” Linda replied, placidly sipping her tea. 

     “What about a kiss for me?” Gran chirped. Clara smiled and kissed the old woman’s forehead. “That’s better. Merry Christmas, dear. Did you sleep well?”

     “Uh—yeah!—just great.” Clara cleared her throat and tucked her hair behind her ears, hoping nobody noticed her blushing. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but _I_ think Gran ought to get her presents first.”

     “Sounds like the perfect arrangement,” Dad said, shooting her an affectionate wink. Gran tut-tutted, but made no protest as Clara plopped down on her floor at her feet and handed her a red-and-white package. Linda pursed her lips and looked as if she were making a herculean effort to suppress a roll of her eyes. 

     Nearly two hours (and at least one garbage bag full of torn Christmas paper) later, Clara and her dad busied themselves with the preparation of a full English breakfast. She glanced at the clock. _8:51._

“Dad?”

     “Hmm?” Dad replied, gently stirring the eggs in the saucepan. 

     “I, uh…I took the liberty of inviting a friend to breakfast.”

     Her father glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “Oh? What kind of friend?”

     Clara panicked. She ducked her head into the fridge, pretending to look for the butter. “Oh, you know…just a friend.”

     “The butter’s already softening on the dining table, sweetheart.”

     Clara bit her lip and shut the fridge. When she turned, her father sent her a gentle, knowing smile.

     “ _Just_ a friend?” he queried. 

     “He’s the caretaker. At the school. Or at least he was, but he quit not too long ago and we…reconnected.” _Not actually a lie—good for you, Oswald._ “Ran into each other. Again. You know.”

     “I do?”

     “Well, it’s Christmas, and people are out and about, shoppin’ and baking and all that and you just…you run into people you thought you might not ever see again.”   

     _It’ll be ten times easier to keep this secret from everybody else in the entire universe, I swear._

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Dad said. “You’ve seemed a bit isolated since Danny passed. Your grandmother and I were hoping that the holidays would lift your spirits.”

     Clara nodded, smiling a little. “They did.”

     “What’s this fellow’s name?”

     “Uh—”

     Before she could finish, the doorbell rang. Clara whirled, glanced at the clock. _8:57._ She shot her dad a gleeful look and dashed the short distance from the kitchen to the front door, yanking it open. 

     Her heart gave a resounding thud at the sight of the Doctor dressed in a coat she’d never seen before—burgundy, with the unmistakable sheen of velvet—and a brightly-colored package in one hand. 

     “On time?” he asked, glancing at his watch. 

     “Three minutes early, actually,” Clara gasped. “You look—”

     “Debonair?” he asked, flashing her a grin—and the coat’s red lining—as he stuffed his hand in his pocket. 

     “ ‘Great.’ I was gonna say ‘great,’ but ‘debonair’ will do.” Clara grabbed his sleeve and eagerly pulled him inside. “Come and meet my family.”

     “I’ve already met them once before—and I swear, this Christmas I’m fully dressed from head to toe—”

     “Clara, who’s there?” Linda called. 

     Clara froze, glanced up anxiously, but the Doctor only raised his eyebrows in calm reply. She clasped his hand, he gave hers a tight squeeze, and they strode together into the parlor. Her dad had already returned to the room, setting the toast rack on the table. Clara cleared her throat.

     “Dad—Gran—Linda—this is…”

     “John Smith,” the Doctor finished. “ _Doctor_ John Smith—Glasgow University—nice to meet you.”

     “ ‘ _Doctor_?’ ” Dad blurted. “I thought you said he was the caretaker at Coal Hill.”

     “Ah—” Clara choked. 

     “Summer side job,” the Doctor said. “Got to keep m’self busy when school’s out.”

     Clara somehow managed to keep her eyes up and a pleasant expression on her face. Her dad looked a little confused but, thankfully, didn’t press the issue. Linda narrowed her eyes at the Doctor, then at Clara, made her (probably ageist) judgments, and primly sipped her tea. 

     “Does _this_ one play Twister?” Gran asked.

     Clara blushed to her roots, but the Doctor smirked and with a flourish handed Gran the package he still held in one hand. 

     “Twister isn’t really my style, Mrs. Oswald—too many contortions, bad for the joints, bit too vigorous. I do seem to recall Clara mentioning something to me about your love for board games, though…”

     “Ooh!” Gran squeaked, tearing the paper eagerly. 

     “…so I took the liberty of picking up a gift.”

     Clara shot him an incredulous look that he deliberately ignored, drawing himself up and stuffing his hands in his pockets instead as he watched Gran’s gleeful reaction to a box of Scrabble. When she lifted her head her bright eyes sparkled as she looked between him and Clara.

     “Oh yes,” she said, pointing a gnarled finger at her granddaughter, “he is _definitely_ a keeper.”

 

————

 

“You almost gave yourself away trying to put ‘Venusian’ into the Scrabble board,” Clara said as soon as they were out of earshot of her dad’s house. The Doctor had (quite innocently) offered to take her home and her dad hadn’t voiced any objections—though she was pretty sure Linda would be watching them from the window and would continue to do so until they rounded the corner. Clara decided not to look back and wound her arm around the Doctor’s instead.

     _Let Linda think what she will of_ that.

     “Well, ‘Venusian’ would’ve fit,” the Doctor argued. “And I play to win.”

     “I know. Good thing I popped you on the back of the head just in time.”

     He smirked, his eyes fixed straight ahead as they strolled leisurely down the sidewalk, which had been cleared of snow sometime during the day. Clara shivered and pulled her cap further over her head. The Doctor watched her as she moved closer to him and wrapped both her arms around his. 

     “What do you want to do now?” he asked. 

     “Go home.”

     “To your flat?”

     “ _No_. I mean—well—yes, I do need to run by there real quick. Pick up some things I’ll need, like my toothbrush and some clothes and the classroom materials I need to study before winter break ends. But no…my flat’s not _home_. Not anymore.”

     For reply she got another one-sided, knowing, and very pleased smirk, followed by a gesture of his head as the TARDIS came into view. Clara sighed and slid her mittened hand into his.

     “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home,” she whispered. 

     “I don’t know about ‘humble.’ Last I checked she has a bit of an attitude.”

     “Like owner, like TARDIS,” Clara teased as she opened the door and skipped inside. The ship hummed appreciatively as the Doctor shut the door behind them, followed her to the console, and started fiddling with the controls. 

     “I suppose you think I’ve forgotten _your_ Christmas present,” he said. 

     Clara paused, surprised. “Actually…I never even thought about it.”

     “Well, I didn’t forget,” he replied with that smug, aren’t-I-amazing tone of voice he pulled out every time he did or said something clever. “What do you say to paying a morning call on Miss Jane Austen tomorrow?”

     Clara blinked. “ _Seriously_?”

     He pressed a few buttons. “Nah, I’m taking you back to the planet with the sand pirahnas. _Of course_ I’m serious. What kind of man do you take me for?”

     Clara clapped a hand over her mouth to hold back a squeal of delight—and failed utterly. The Doctor grinned at her and threw a lever; the TARDIS lights shimmered and blinked, and Clara gripped the edge of the console as the ship dematerialized from the sleepy Blackpool neighborhood. 

 

———— 

 

“Do you believe in Santa Claus?” he had asked her last night, gripping her shoulders like both their lives depended on it. She had replied that in that moment, she most definitely did. 

     But now, she could only remember what she’d said in the sleigh when he’d asked the question again. 

     _“I've always believed in Santa Claus. But he looks a little different to me.”_

And watching him on the other side of the console—the man she loved, the man who really would stop all the monsters, who’d already gone to hell just because she asked—she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that no matter how maddening he could be, she’d never leave him again. 

     


	3. Extreme Makeover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a girl enters a new season of life, the transition sometimes calls for a fun but drastic change. Of course, certain hugely intelligent Time Lords may remain completely oblivious to such things...

_“A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life.”_

 

_—Coco Chanel_

* * *

Clara swept the red marker in a horizontal line underneath the imposing name of _William Shakespeare_ and spun on her heel to face her class. “And _this_ is the author we’ll begin studying bright and early Monday morning—so prepare yourself for lots of ghosts, feisty heroines, and witches’ cauldrons, ‘cause it’s gonna be a rollercoaster ride. Good job for your first week back after winter break!”

     The Year Elevens scrambled out of their desks, slinging backpacks over their shoulders as the shrill bell echoed through Coal Hill’s hallways. Clara smiled and nodded and patted a few shoulders as they passed her before making eye contact with Courtney Woods. The fifteen-year-old shifted her backpack from one arm to the other, looking as if she were trying to keep an insolent expression on her face and couldn’t quite manage it. 

     “Good to see you again, Miss,” she said.

     Clara blinked, surprised. “Well, thanks, Courtney—good to see you again, too.”

     “You look…happier.”

     “I _am_ happier. Bye, Colin!” Clara waved at the boy before turning back to Courtney. “It just takes some time to get over… _things._ Y’know?”

     The girl nodded. “Yeah, well…I’m glad. I missed you bein’ the weirdest teacher here.”

     Clara smiled. “I think I’ll go ahead and take that as a compliment.”

     Courtney grinned, waved, and hurried out of the room. Clara chuckled softly to herself before taking a high-five from the last of the students and shutting the door behind them all. 

     Her amusement lasted only a few more seconds. Courtney’s comment inevitably brought back memories of _him. Danny._ The Year Elevens were on their way to maths anyway, to study under a new teacher—Kevin, she believed his name was—and she already knew from a few comments she’d overheard in the ladies’ room that Danny Pink’s unflappable good humor in the classroom was sorely missed. 

     _Five minutes_ , she thought, moving to erase William Shakespeare’s name from the whiteboard. _Might as well take ‘em now._

Five minutes to wallow in remorse. Five minutes to think, over and over again, _I’m sorry I’m sorry I wish I could’ve given you what you really deserved Danny you deserved so much better than me I’m sorry please forgive me I really did love you please forgive me._ Five minutes to ponder over the fact that just a year ago she’d first started dating him, while always glancing over her shoulder to make certain a certain, lanky, silver-haired Time Lord with the fathomless blue eyes stayed a few steps behind her. 

     What a difference a year could make. And what guilt she still carried.

     Tears pricked her eyes. Clara sniffled, slung her bag over her shoulder and across her hip, and grabbed the folder full of papers that would need marking this evening. Danny was dead—there was no fixing that—and she would wrestle with that guilt over the way she’d treated him for the rest of her life. But she had no doubt that he’d want her to move on. That dream back at Christmas hadn’t been _just_ a dream. Somehow, some way, that _had_ been him talking and not just a construct of her subconscious. 

     People had eternal souls. Missy wouldn’t have been able to carry out her blood-curdling plan with the Cybermen if that weren’t true—so why _couldn’t_ Danny’s soul have touched hers at Christmas? Maybe he knew, wherever he was, that she’d been on the verge of death. Maybe he knew he had to save her one last time. 

     _Maybe he knew I_ had _to live…so I could be with the Doctor._  

     Clara yanked her classroom door open and paused a moment on the threshhold. Thoughts like these always made her feel small, fragile, and undeserving of any blessing, from the sunshine to the cool breeze against her cheeks to the comfort of a hot meal to the softness in the Doctor’s eyes every time she woke up and found him lying there beside her, watching her sleep.

     _My five minutes are up, love_ , she seemed to hear Danny’s voice whisper in her head. _Now…Carpe Diem. Seize the day. All those wonderful things are still yours to claim._

Clara drew herself up as far as her tiny frame would allow and tilted her head back. She shut the classroom door behind her, hugged the folder against her chest…and marched down the hallway with a look of renewed purpose written all over her young face. 

 

————

 

The Doctor had said he’d be late today—something about an issue with sentient invasive ivy taking over a planet called Vaygadarro—and that he’d meet her at her flat this evening. That gave her a few hours to run some errands. Zipping through Blackpool on her motorcycle (she blamed him entirely for _that_ —he’d sparked her interest in motorcycles on their very first adventure together, back when he still wore a bow-tie), Clara dropped off an old watch for repairs, dashed into the library for a book she’d had on hold since before Christmas—

     And remembered just as she was about to head to the flat that she was due for a trim. 

     “Oh, Clara!” cried Sophie, a motherly sort of woman who’d been doing Clara’s hair since she was younger than little Maebh Arden. “I was just wondering the other day when I’d see you in here again! How was your Christmas?”

     “Oh, pretty lovely, all things considered,” Clara said, submitting to a kiss on her cheek. “And of course _you’d_ be wonderin’ when I’d come in—you always seem to know when my dead ends’ll be reaching a critical point.”

     Sophie snorted. “They’re well past that, love. Go on, sit in the chair and tell me everything you’ve been up to lately.”

     Clara settled in the chair, glancing at her reflection in the mirror as Sophie swept a hairdresser’s robe around her. Courtney was right: she _did_ look happier than she had just a couple of months ago. The dark circles under her eyes were gone and she didn’t look so thin and worn. In fact, she looked…energetic. The picture of health. Apples in her cheeks, a brightness in her eyes. A confident warmth surged in her chest at the realization. 

     “So, how’d you spent your winter break?” Sophie asked, brushing Clara’s long brown hair.

     “Oh, you know…catchin’ up on my reading, doing a bit of travelin’…”

     “Your gran was in here last week. She said you’ve got a new _friend_.”

     Clara blushed. “Oh gosh. Gran talks too much.”

     “Mm-hmm, true, but she’s _quite_ the source of information. She said you’ve got your old vim and vigor back after your rough summer.” Sophie laid a gentle finger under Clara’s chin and smiled. “I can see she was right.”

     Clara laughed a little sheepishly. “You’re not the first person who’s said that today.”

     Sophie gave a soft “hmm” and narrowed her eyes at Clara’s reflection. “You know what I think, love? I think you need somethin’ more than a simple trim of your dead ends.”

     “What do you mean?”

     Sophie rounded the chair, peering at Clara like she was a laboratory experiment. “Mm- _hmm_ …that _would_ be flattering. Clara-dear, what do you say to a fullblown makeover? I wouldn’t charge you anymore’n I’d charge for a trim, so you can consider this my belated Christmas gift to you. After all, you’re one of my favorite customers. Always have been, ever since your mum brought you in when you were—what? Six?”

     “B-but why do I need a makeover?” 

     “ _Because_ , love, it does wonders for the spirit. Especially when one is embarking on a grand new phase of life—which you clearly are. I can see that in your eyes.” Sophie darted back behind the chair so she could look at Clara in the mirror again and started gesturing at the young woman’s face. “Long-ish hair, nuh-uh, far too traditional and boring. What do you say to a bob, comes down to about…here.”

     She tapped Clara’s neck just above her shoulders. Clara raised her eyebrows with a half-uncertain, half-excited smile and laughed.

     “Well…”

     “You’d really look fantastic, love.”

     Clara thought a moment, screwing up her face…and relaxed. 

     “Oh, why not?” she cried. “Do your worst, Sophie. Just don’t dye it blue or anythin’.”

 

————

 

An hour or so later Clara walked into her flat feeling like she walked on clouds. She dropped her helmet and keys on the kitchen table and raced to the bathroom for another look at herself in the mirror. 

     “ _Wow_ ,” she whispered gleefully. Her hair, free of several inches, had started to wave and even curl a bit against her neck and face. The feisty bob looked…well, _great_ , obviously—but it also felt carefree, adventurous. Bold. Practical, too. She fluffed the ends and giggled…

     And then the thought hit her. 

     _What’s the Doctor going to think?_

She froze, unsure whether to giggle again or feel concerned. He wouldn’t be upset—he wasn’t that kind of person—but it might throw him into utter confusion for a week. _Or_ he’d love it and pretend he didn’t by cracking jokes about how it made her face look even wider than ever.

     _Or_ he wouldn’t even notice. That was actually very possible. 

     Clara stepped back from the mirror, a tiny frown of concentration knotting her forehead. She could have a lot of fun with this if she did it right. 

 

————

 

She knew as soon as she called him that his ringtone for her number—which he’d mischievously changed to “Pretty Woman” despite her embarrassed protests—would probably cause some confusion among the inhabitants of Vaygadarro. She couldn’t help thinking it served him right when he finally picked up.

     _“Seriously, can you not? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”_

     Clara pulled a package of frozen food out of the freezer. “What? ‘Pretty Woman’ interrupting a dark, dangerous situation?”

     _“Something like that, yes.”_

“Well, I told you not to make that your ringtone. Are you nearly finished there?”

     _“…ish.”_

“Okay, well, don’t bother picking anything up for dinner because I’ve got that taken care of.”

     There was an uncertain pause on the other end. _“Did you call me_ just _to tell me that, Clara?”_

“That, and…” Clara leaned against the countertop and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

     _“I hate surprises.”_

“Well, you’re gonna love this one if you’ve got eyes to see it. But whoa wait—don’t hang up on me yet! Don’t come to the flat for _two hours_ , okay? That’s seven o’clock _my_ time. Got it?”

     _“Got it. Now if you’ll excuse me, Clara, I’ve got a bunch of sentient ivy slidin’ up my trouser leg—gotta go.”_

“Wait, _what—_?”

     But he’d hung up. Clara frowned, stared at her phone screen, swallowed down a lump of anxiety…and decided to continue with her scheme. 

     He was the Doctor, after all. He’d find a way even out of a situation like that.

 

————

 

He _did_ find a way out of that unnerving situation, of course—but it required every ounce of Time Lord ingenuity in him, along with an exceptionally strong burst of adrenaline and some unavoidable, unpleasant choices. By the time the Doctor shut the door of the TARDIS behind him and trudged wearily to the console, he felt exactly as he had after he confronted the two-dimensional Boneless in the Bristol Underground. 

     “I hate this,” he growled into the TARDIS’ uneasy silence. “I hate it when I’m given only a handful of options, and all of them are bad. I hate it when I know that I’m part of…destroyin’ life. Even an evil life.”

     The TARDIS hummed softly overhead, her telepathic circuits whispering into his consciousness. _“And yet sometimes that is all you_ can _do if you wish to save_ innocent _lives, Thief. You know that.”_

“Of course I know that, but it doesn’t make it any easier.”

     The TARDIS said nothing. The Doctor’s lean, weathered face relaxed out of its near-perpetual scowl and into something far more tired and almost sad as he pulled the levers and set course for Blackpool, late-January 2015. 

     “All right, Clara,” he muttered, pulling the console’s revolving screen towards him. “Let’s see what you’ve got in store for us this evening.”

     Within moments the TARDIS landed with a muffled _thud_ inside Clara’s flat. Exactly where in the flat, he never quite knew: the TARDIS and Clara were on better terms these days, but the sentient ship still enjoyed getting on his friend/companion/wife’s nerves by landing in the most inconvenient places—like the bathroom, or the middle of her cramped kitchen. To his surprise, however, the TARDIS had no tricks up her sleeve today: the Doctor opened the door, peeked out, and realized she’d landed in a tidy corner of Clara’s bedroom. 

     “Good girl,” the Doctor murmured, pulling the door shut behind him. “Clara?”

     “In the living room!” 

     At the sound of her voice, all the tension of the past who-knew-how-many-hours drained right out of him. The Doctor almost smiled as he strode quickly out of her bedroom, down the short hallway, turning the corner into the small but cozy living area—

     And stopped short at the sight of the card table she’d dragged in, draped with a burgundy table cloth and set with actual dishes—not plastic or paper ones. Clara herself stood behind one of the chairs, her small hands clasped in front of her stomach. Her eyes were so large and dark and bright and her face was so pink that for a second he thought she might be feverish. But then again, if she were feverish she’d be chilled and certainly not wearing _that_ dress. When had he seen her in that dress? Kind of a silvery blue, no sleeves, bit of a poof to the skirt—

     _Cold War. Submarine. Soviet Navy._

_Meant to take her to Las Vegas and ended up dealing with a Martian Ice Warrior._

“Hey,” Clara breathed, smiling broadly. 

     “Hey,” the Doctor repeated, still staring. “Did I miss something? Is it your birthday?”

     She laughed. “Nope.”

     “Is it my birthday?”

     Clara laughed again. “I don’t even _know_ your birthday, Doctor.”

     “Is it some obscure English holiday that I ought not celebrate on account of bein’ Scottish?”

     “ _No_.”

     “Then why’s your face colored in?”

     Clara put her hands on her waist, tilted her head to one side, and pointed both index fingers at her head. “Oh, okay, good, you’re lookin’ up here now. What d’you think?”

     The Doctor peered at her, utterly confused. Clara raised her eyebrows. He was pretty sure that was her _Come-on-Doctor-you’ve-got-this_ look, but he wasn’t quite sure. Might just as easily be translated into _I-have-married-an-idiot._

 _And_ I _am too tired for this_.

     “I think…” he said very slowly, “…that you look…”

     Clara raised her eyebrows even higher. 

     “Beautiful. There, I said it. You look beautiful. Am I good now? Did I say the right thing?”

     She blinked and for a moment he thought for sure he was in for a lecture—until she lowered her arms, gave her head a little shake, and darted out from behind the table. The next thing he knew she’d pressed herself against him and wound her arms tight around his neck. He let out the breath he’d been holding and buried his face in the warm curve of her neck and shoulder. 

     “Yes,” she laughed softly. “You definitely said the right thing.”

 

————

 

The surprise, apparently, was just a decent meal at the flat—or at least that’s what she said when he asked. The Doctor started to wonder if she was telling the whole truth when he caught her stealing curious glances at him during the meal and while he told her about the crisis on Vaygadarro. She didn’t give him a chance to interrogate her, however, before she started prodding him about the ivy.

     “So you had to destroy it,” she murmured, propping her chin in her hand. “Burn it…like a deforestation campaign.”

     “Basically,” he muttered, picking at his food with his fork. “Except when people are deforesting here on Earth they’re not usually killing sentient beings.”

     “You told the ivy to back off, though. It refused, started strangling people. You had to choose between it and the people’s innocent inhabitants. Why’s that any different than any other bad guys you’ve ever faced?”

     “It’s not. It just…” The Doctor hesitated, lowered his head. “It never makes me _happy_ when I have to take such drastic measures. I always wonder, ‘Did I do everything I could to settle this fairly for both sides? How many other species are out there with no respect whatsoever for other life forms?’ And then I wonder…‘how long can I keep doing this?’ ”

     A soft look crept into Clara’s dark eyes; she reached out, rested her free hand atop his. Out of sheer force of habit the Doctor flinched, but reminded himself just in time that it was only Clara— _his_ Clara—and he was safe. With her he could be vulnerable, open, raw. With her he could let himself feel, and know he was understood. So he didn’t jerk his hand away like he might’ve done just a short year ago. Instead he focused on the sensation of her cool skin against his and wished, suddenly, that he’d been brave enough to tell her she was beautiful a long time ago. 

     “You do realize,” she said gently, “that only a very, _very_ good man would think like that.”

     The Doctor shuddered, swallowed hard. Clara rose out of her chair and kissed his cheek before grabbing her plate off the table. 

     “Help me with the dishes, Clever Boy,” she murmured, “and we’ll watch some telly before bed.”

     “Are we sleeping in the TARDIS, or here?” he asked. 

     She shot him an incredulous, mischievous look. “Why would I sleep here when I could sleep in the TARDIS?” she asked—and with a flounce of her skirt she darted across the hall and into the kitchen. 

 

————

 

A couple of hours later found them on her couch, watching some history documentary about the Aztecs. The Doctor only half-listened to the narrative; he couldn’t tell if Clara was actually enjoying it, or just relishing the rare opportunity to sit and do nothing. He had one arm draped around her, but as the overly-dramatic narrator began delving into grisly details of blood sacrifices he brought his hand up to her head and began running his fingers through her hair. 

     Clara hadn’t moved much in the past ten minutes, but now he felt her go absolutely still. The Doctor let her dark hair fall softly back against her cheek and neck before running his fingers through it again and again and again. He could tell, by the fourth time, that she was holding her breath. He leaned his head close to hers. 

     “Why did you cut your hair?” he whispered. 

     Clara gasped and bolted upright, her eyes enormous. “When did you notice?” 

     “About thirty seconds ago. Why did you cut your hair?”

     “ _Thirty seconds ago?!_ Doctor, you didn’t notice the minute you walked in?”

     The Doctor raised his expressive eyebrows. “Maybe I was far too busy noticin’ you’re wearin’ the same dress you wore the night I was supposed to take you to Las Vegas and ended up introducin’ you to Skaldak.”

     Clara glanced down at her dress, then back up at him a bit slyly. “Seriously? You noticed _that_ , but not my new haircut?”

     “What can I say? I liked that dress. Always did. Always wished you’d worn it again.”

     She made a sound somewhere between a snort and a giggle and shook her head. “Okay, so…do you like the haircut, then?”

     The Doctor cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. “It looks more…Clara-ish.”

     “You think so?”

     “Yeah. It _fits_ you now. _This_ you.”

     She smiled, slid her fingers into his lengthening curls. “I could say the same thing about _your_ hair these days, y’know. Maybe we’re just finally gettin’ comfortable in our own skins.”

     “And that’s a good thing,” he said, eyes firmly fixed on hers. 

     “Oh yeah,” Clara whispered. “A _very_ good thing.”


	4. I'll Be Waiting Here For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davros created the Daleks...but who created Davros? Shame and a grim determination to put things right drive the Doctor far away...and Clara is left to pick up the pieces. (Prologue + fill-in scenes for The Magician's Apprentice.)

_Run fast as you can_

_No one has to understand_

_Fly high across the sky from here to kingdom come_

_Fall back down to where you're from_

_Don't you fret, my dear_

_It'll all be over soon_

_I'll be waiting here for you_

_—Civil Wars, “Kingdom Come”_

* * *

He was supposed to be runnin’ a simple errand for Clara. Nothing more, nothing less. 

     So why had he ended up _there_ , on _that_ battlefield?

     

————

 

“Doctor? Doctor, could you do somethin’ for me?” she had called him in that extra-sweet, plaintive sort of voice that warned him she was about to ask him to do something he might not enjoy. When he turned from the TARDIS console he’d watched her skip up the steps towards him, all dressed for another day’s work with the pudding brains—but she clasped her hands all nervous-like in front of her and had her head and torso tilted to one side as if she were peering anxiously at him from behind a corner.   

     _Uncertainty_ , he’d thought. _Better log that one for the files._

“Well, that all depends on what the ‘something’ is,” he’d said aloud, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the console. 

     “Okay. How about runnin’ to the 19th century and picking up a first edition of _Moby Dick_?”

     That had shocked him so thoroughly, the Doctor had blinked and raised his eyebrows. “Why? Do you need to hit someone over the head with it? Because they may call _Les Miserables_ ‘The Brick’ but _Moby Dick_ could give it some competition for the title.”

     Clara laughed. “ _No_ , I don’t need to hit anyone with it—although one could argue that Kevin could use it…”

     “Who’s Kevin?”

     Clara paused, dark eyes flickering with irritation. “Danny Pink’s replacement. Maths teacher.”

     “Oh.”

     “Yeah. Bit of a jerk. Can’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

     The Doctor frowned. “Do I need to beat him up for you?”

     “Umm. Not really your style, Doctor.”

     “It might be, if he’s makin’ a pass at you. I have a duty of care, if you recall.”

     Clara’s scowl relaxed and she smiled softly instead. “I _do_ recall, and I appreciate it. But I’m a big girl—and besides, I know tae kwon do. He’ll learn quick not to mess with me.”

     “Oooookay.” The Doctor frowned harder but decided to let the subject go. “So. 19th century. New England. _Moby Dick_. Take my advice and skip the boring bits. It’s actually a pretty good read once you get to the whale. But you do realize a first edition straight outta the 19th century isn’t gonna look all aged and vintage-y and impressive on your desk.”

     “Oh, I know. But it’ll still look a lot more interesting than a boring old paperback—and _I’ll_ know where it came from.”

     “Point taken.” He paused, allowed himself a smile. “Come with?”

     Clara shook her head. “No…I’ve gotta be at work a little earlier this morning and I don’t want to get sidetracked by an adventure. Take me somewhere tomorrow, ‘kay? It’ll be Saturday. I’ll be all yours.”

     “Won’t you have far more interestin’ plans?” he teased. 

     “Oh, I dunno,” she murmured, a sly, flirty something sparking in her eye. “But if you come up with somethin’ _really_ interesting I might consider shelving everything else.”

     “Well in that case, I’ll try not to disappoint.”

     She’d smiled broadly at that, bit her lower lip, raised her eyebrows hopefully. He’d taken the hint and kissed her—not that he’d needed much persuading—he never seemed to need much these days—and he might’ve kissed her a few more times if she hadn’t hummed in protest and pushed herself away from him. 

     “No, no…can’t get sidetracked,” she mumbled.

     “Fine,” he replied, throwing the lever that would take them straight to Coal Hill. “Bit too late though—you’re as pink as a well-boiled shrimp.”

     She shot him a playful glare and snatched her bag from the floor where she’d left it last night. “Meet me tonight at the flat?”

     “As always.”

     “Okay. Don’t do anything crazy without me! Love you!”

     And with that she’d run out the door, a flurry of energy and happiness and feisty hair and wide sparkling eyes. He’d gazed after her for a moment, well aware of the silly smile on his face, before he’d set coordinates for the 19th century. 

     Or at least that’s what he _thought_ he’d set them for. Sometimes the TARDIS either had a mind of her own, or her navigation system had a glitch. Which was why, as he stepped out in the middle of a smoke-filled battlefield, complete with anachronistic weaponry and the screams of the dying, his jaw dropped in surprise and horror. Clearly not 19th-century New England. But he hadn’t hestitated, not even for a second. That wasn’t his style, anymore than walking into Coal Hill and delivering a well-placed uppercut to some bloke who’d made a pass at his Clara would have been.

     He was the Doctor, and he saved people. Simple as that. 

     So why had he frozen when that grimy-faced, soft-voiced little boy simply obeyed his kindly, confident command? _“Tell me the name of the boy who isn’t going to die today!”_  

     The answer should _not_ have mattered—but it had. It had made his blood run cold. 

     And he’d run like a coward. Disappeared as soon as the hazy, smoky fog concealed him from the child’s view. And as soon as he shut himself back in the TARDIS and ordered his ship back into the Time Vortex he’d collapsed on the steps, breathing hard, his head in his hands. 

     _Coward. Cruel. Coward. Cruel. Cruel. Cruel…_

_Davros created the Daleks…but who created Davros?_

_Who?_

_You._

_Who?_

_The Doctor._

_The man who’s supposed to stop the monsters._

 

_————_

 

By the time he got back to Clara’s flat with a copy of _Moby Dick_ in hand it was 11 PM. He made sure to land in her living room, not wanting to startle her if she was asleep, and tiptoed into her bedroom. He found her curled up on one side of the bed, her arms around the pillow he used on the rare occasion that they spent the night here rather than in the TARDIS.  

     He lowered himself to a seat on the edge of the bed. Clara didn’t move. He set the book on the nightstand, toed off his shoes, pulled off the hoodie, the hole-spotted jumper, and one of his t-shirts. Out of habit he started to draw the sonic screwdriver out of his pocket, remembering too late that he’d tossed it to the little boy.

     _Coward. Cruel. Coward. Cruel. Cruel. Cruel…_

_Davros created the Daleks…but who created Davros?_

Clara drew a long, deep breath and rolled onto her back. The Doctor froze, not wanting to disturb her if she tumbled back into sleep, but she stretched her short legs under the blankets and screwed up her face and cracked her eyes open anyway. She smiled drowsily and ran her fingers along his arm. 

     “Hey,” she whispered. “What time is it?”

     “Nearly midnight.”

     “Mmm. Run into Captain Ahab himself?”

     “Something like that,” the Doctor muttered. 

     “Got some food in the fridge.”

     “Not hungry.”

     “M’kay then. G’night—”

     “We need to talk.”

     Clara’s forehead knotted. She propped herself up on her elbows. “Are you all right?”

     He didn’t answer right away. He drew aside the blankets and she immediately scooted over as he slid in beside her and lay down flat on his back, clasping his hands over his chest. He knew she watched him closely, questioningly, but he couldn’t even look at her. When she scooted closer and rested a hand on his shoulder he flinched under her touch. 

     _You don’t deserve her. Not after what you did. Distance yourself. It’s the only way._

“Tell me,” she whispered. 

     He scowled at the ceiling. “I may need to go away. For a while.”

     “Okay. How long’s ‘a while?’ ”

     “I…I don’t know.” _Forever. You don’t deserve me, Clara. I have to make amends and I won’t make it out alive._

“Okay.” She paused, brushed her fingertips through his curls. “I’ll just take a week’s vacation. Haven’t done that since last summer, and we’ve done a good job at making sure I’m at work on time, so the principal shouldn’t put up a fuss—”

     “No, Clara,” the Doctor interrupted, turning his head on the pillow to look at her firmly. “You need to stay here. This is one… _adventure_ I need to face alone.”

     Her eyes widened; her lips parted slightly but no sound came out of her mouth. The Doctor’s chest ached at the sight. _Confusion. Hurt._ Those expressions of hers, at least, were easy to read. He’d seen them often enough last year when he’d been so brusque with her, trying to hold her at arm’s length in a way his former, hopelessly-in-love self never would’ve dreamed of doing. 

     He’d only wanted to protect her then. Not hurt her. He would never intentionally hurt her. 

     _And yet that’s exactly what you’re doing right now._

_Coward. Cruel. Coward. Cruel. Cruel. Cruel…_

He rolled onto his side and propped himself on his own elbow, mimicking her position. Clara had her mouth crimped shut now, her dark eyebrows knotted. Her shortened hair curled slightly at the ends, brushing her sleep-flushed cheeks. She was so, so beautiful, his Clara. He dared not break eye contact with her, yet he wanted nothing more than to let his gaze trail all over her face so he could memorize her features…just in case he never saw them again. 

     “Am I good man, Clara?” he asked. 

     “ _Yes_ ,” she said, firmly. 

     “Does a good man make amends for his mistakes?”

     She blinked, her frown deepening. “Is that what this is about?”

     “Perhaps.”

     “Don’t be all mysterious with me—”

     He raised a finger to her lips. The surprise in her enormous dark eyes morphed into dread as he drew his finger back and slipped his hand underneath her hair instead, his thumb running slowly along her cheekbone. He felt himself smiling, sadly. 

     “Do you trust me, Clara?” he asked. 

     “Of course. I’d trust you with my life. I just don’t trust you to take care of _yours_ without me.”

     He chuckled grimly. “Oh, Clara Oswald. You know me too well, I think.”

     She laid her hand over his, pressing his palm firmly against her cheek. “Let me go with you…wherever you’re going. _Please_.”

     He _almost_ gave in. Almost yielded to those eyes (which he could’ve sworn had tripled in size) and the quaver in her voice and the feeling of her palm against the top of his hand. But then he envisioned what he’d be walking into—hordes of Daleks without mercy, and Davros bent on revenge for a long-ago abandonment—and barely repressed a shudder at the thought of his Clara facing _that._ He lowered his hand from her face and shook his head. 

     “No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’ve made a mistake, and I have to make things right—but 

it’ll be dangerous. If anything happened to you I’d…I might forget about everything I’ve got to do. Don’t ask me again, Clara. Please.”

     Clara pressed her lips together. Her eyes had turned glassy and he wasn’t surprised when her chin quivered—but she blinked hard before the tears could fall and dropped her gaze. 

     “Okay,” she whispered. “But I’ll have you know I’m gonna live every day like you’re comin’ back.”

     _I won’t be coming back._ “Good, ‘cause as soon as I do I’m gonna take you to see a planet inhabited solely by wood-nymphs.”

     She tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. He drew her down beside him, and as she burrowed her face in his chest he wondered if she knew he’d say _anything_ just to see her smile one more time. 

 

————

 

She woke before dawn. He hadn’t slept at all, merely lying on his side and watching her through the night and remembering all their adventures, from the day he finally found her at the Maitlands’ home to the time they fought Cybermen on the moon…to the harrowing day she and his past selves stood in the ruins of Gallifrey…to the way her eyes had sparkled when she finally met Robin Hood…to the Bank of Karabraxos…all the way to a few hours ago, when he’d tried so hard to show her, tenderly and without words, just how much she meant to him. 

     As soon as her eyes opened they flooded with relief that he hadn’t left her in the middle of the night. He ached at the thought that she’d suspected he would. 

     “I love you, you daft old man,” she whispered sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”

     His throat tightened. “Yes.”

     She reached out, cupped his cheek in her hand. He turned his head so he could kiss her palm, leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Clara shut her eyes. He felt her fingers tighten around his arm and quickly pulled back before he could lose himself in that silent plea of _stay with me_. 

     “See you later, Clara Oswald,” he whispered. 

     She swallowed hard, nodded—and this time she did smile. “See you later, Doctor.”

 

————

 

For three long weeks Clara went through the motions. She carried out her work at Coal Hill, returned to her flat every evening, and started all over again the next morning. One weekend she visited her gran, but otherwise her only companions were her fellow teachers and her students. She was pretty sure her face would go stiff from the effort of flashing cheerful smiles when she didn’t feel happy in the slightest. 

     _I can do this_ , she thought one evening as she marked papers and tried to ignore the heavy silence of her flat. _He’s gonna come back. He always does. And when he does, I’m gonna be calm, cool, and collected—and just pretend he hasn’t been gone more than a few hours after all. For all I know, it’ll only_ be _a few hours for him. No need to lose my mind._

But the longer the Doctor was gone, the harder she had to fight back a cold dread. He’d never been gone _this_ long before. Oh sure, there was that time right after he regenerated when she hadn’t seen him for two weeks—but he’d never done that to her again. And they certainly hadn’t been apart more than a couple of nights since Christmas. 

     By the time she got to the twenty-first night, something in her cracked. All her determination to keep her spirits high even in private broke down. Once she returned to Coal Hill tomorrow morning, of course, she’d have to put her smile back on—but here, alone, curled up in her bed and burying her face in one of his old shirts that she’d found in the laundry not long after he left, she let herself break down in frightened, lonely tears.

     The very next day, the planes froze in the sky. 

 

————

 

“You see that couple over there? You’re the puppy.”

     Clara pressed her lips together and clamped down on her indignation. Missy clearly thought she was very clever and all-knowing—and she obviously thought she had a superior claim on 

the Doctor’s heart, regardless of her haughty protests about how her feelings for him were far beyond “the reproductive frenzy of your noisy little food chain.”

     _Or maybe she’s just taunting me. Trying to get me to react. Trying to get me to start confessing…stuff._

_Nice try, Missy. And you are so wrong. So, so wrong._

_Then again…he did give her that confession dial. Whatever it is._

_Focus, Clara. Don’t get too angry just yet. Just remember that all this means he’s still alive._

_He’s still alive._

_Oh thank God, the Doctor is still alive._

————

 

When she saw him again she was so busy trying not to burst out laughing, she completely forgot was supposed to be a bit ticked off with him. 

     He darted all around the medieval amphitheater in front of his very modern tank like a drunken stick insect on a sugar rush, bellowing hilarious nonsense in his strong Scottish burr and whipping his Saxon audience into a frenzy. Clara watched him, half-enchanted, half-bewildered. Missy smirked, one hand on her hip, and clicked her tongue. 

     “Idiot,” she muttered. “But a very adorable idiot.”

     “What’s the matter with him?” Clara whispered. “He’s never like this.” _Not even with me._

Missy snorted. “Oh, you really are new, aren’t you?”

     Clara almost lashed out at that— _almost_ snapped something about how Missy didn’t know a  _thing_ about what the Doctor and his Impossible Girl had gone through since _she_ , Missy, tried to destroy Earth in a Cyberman attack—but before she could so much as open her mouth the Doctor paused, turned his face up towards the rampart where the two women huddled together. He wore sunglasses so Clara couldn’t see his eyes, but he’d gone silent and his hands had tightened around his guitar.

     “Wait, hang on,” Clara hissed. “Did he just hear that? He doesn't know we're here, does he?”

     Missy frowned, as confused as everyone else—and then Clara heard it. 

     The opening chords, loud and defiant, of “Pretty Woman.”

 

_Pretty woman won't you pardon me_

_Pretty woman I couldn't help but see_

_Pretty woman that you look lovely as can be_

_Are you lonely just like me_

 

Clara’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t help it: she started laughing. His ringtone—that silly, _obnoxious_ song he’d insisted on associating with her ever since Christmas, much to her embarrassment—he’d play that _here_ , in medieval Essex?! But the Doctor simply kept his head tilted back and, she knew, his eyes locked on her behind the sunglasses. 

     And if Missy’s expression turned a bit sullen as his long fingers moved fast and hard against the strings, well…Clara certainly wasn’t about to feel guilty about _that_.

 

————

 

It had been a long, hard three weeks of trying to prepare himself, mentally as well as emotionally, for the confrontation he knew was coming. Thankfully, he hadn’t been alone the whole time. Bors and his community had been more than welcoming (if a bit annoying sometimes). 

     But at the sight of Missy and Clara peering over the top of the rampart he wasn’t sure whether to indulge in a burst of reckless, joyful relief, or roar at them to go home and keep themselves safe from whatever was on its way.

     He could _feel_ it coming. He could feel it deep in his bones and in the prickle at the back of his neck. And yet as he watched Clara hurry down the old stone steps and into the center of the amphitheater, smiling from ear to ear and waving at his new friends, his hearts pounded with something far, far more powerful—and far more pleasant—than fear.  

     _Hands at your sides, Doctor Idiot. Don’t you dare even touch her. And keep those sunglasses up—don’t you dare let Missy see what’s in your eyes. Don’t you dare let_ anyone _guess just how much she means to you. Not when you don’t even know who else might be watching._

Clara folded her arms over her chest and leaned close, dropping her voice to a whisper. “How did you know I was here? Did you see me?”

     The Doctor blinked, surprised she’d even ask such a question. “When do I _not_ see you?”

     She jabbed her thumb at his noisy audience. “What, one face in all that crowd?”

     He almost smirked. “There was a crowd, too?” 

     Clara’s large dark eyes widened and she almost laughed. “Wow, we’re doing charm as well now, are we? Which one of us is dying?”

     _Which one of us, indeed?_ The horror and the fear hit him like a wave—horror that she might still be here to see whatever was in store for him, and fear that she might get swept away in it. She was here—she was his weakness— _and_ oh _, this is what I’ve been so terrified of for so long, that they’ll figure it out and use her against me…_

He couldn’t stop himself. In spite of all his inner protests and warnings he reached out and all but slammed her against his chest. Clara let out a soft “ _Oof!_ ” but wrapped her arms around him tightly and _oh_ , how he’d missed the feel of her fierce hugs. Why had he spent so much time last year insisting he didn’t like them? 

     “Okay,” she gasped. “Aaaaand we’re doing hugging now, too. I can't keep up.”

     “Well, you know what they say,” he whispered into her shoulder. “Hugging’s a great way to hide your face.”

     She pushed herself back and grabbed his sunglasses, pushed them up towards his forehead so she could see his eyes. “Okay, look—I guessed a party, but not like _this_. What _is_ this? This isn’t you!”

     _These are the death throes of a rebel Time Lord, Clara-my-Clara._ “I spent all day yesterday in a bow tie, the day before in a long scarf. It's my party, and all of me is invited.”

     The bewilderment in her face hurt more than anything she could’ve said—but he couldn’t afford to let her question him any further. Missy had just walked in, genuine concern flickering behind the ever-present mischief in her sharp blue eyes. 

     _She_ knew it was bad…whatever it was. She would’ve known as soon as Ohila sent her the confession dial. But he’d never imagined she’d bring Clara along. 

     The icy dread curled up his spine again, and the Doctor wished with all his hearts that his Impossible Girl was far, far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting two chapters today, so wait a few minutes and I'll have the "Witch's Familiar" chapter up and running!


	5. Til Kingdom Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Clara have a much-needed conversation after he frees her from the Dalek casing. (Fill-in scene and epilogue for "The Witch's Familiar)

_Hold my head inside your hands,_

_I need someone who understands._

_I need someone, someone who hears,_

_For you, I've waited all these years._

 

_—Coldplay, “Til Kingdom Come”_

* * *

They were supposed to save the Doctor from Davros together. That had been the plan ever since they found themselves in the barren wasteland outside the Daleks’ capital city. And all things considered, it _had_ been a pretty good plan.

     Of course, an alliance between a Time Lady of questionable sanity and a diminutive human English teacher from Blackpool had its challenges. There was definitely no love lost between them. A certain incident in a certain cemetery involving a certain maths teacher practically guaranteed they’d never be bezzy mates. 

     But no matter how you sliced it, both the Time Lady and the Teacher loved the Doctor. Clara didn’t trust Missy—would _never_ trust her—would never forgive her for what she did to Danny Pink. But somehow, some way, as weird as it was, Missy loved the Doctor. For that reason alone, Clara was willing to ally herself with the Doctor’s worst friend and best enemy this one time. 

     What Missy’s love actually looked like, of course, Clara hadn’t figured out yet. But right now she had a bad feeling that she didn’t factor into Missy’s concept of the Doctor’s wellbeing or happiness at all…

 

————

 

Clara gripped the arms of the cramped seat inside the Dalek casing so hard, her knuckles ached. She hadn’t really _sensed_ it moving until the earthquake started and kept throwing it off kilter, it glided that smoothly down the silvery corridors—but she could definitely _see_ how it zoomed around this corner and that one, responding to her own panicked need to get outside. 

     For once, she and the real Daleks shared the same goal. _Find the Doctor._  

     “I can do this,” she hissed aloud, thinking _right_ and watching in relief as the casing swerved to the right. “I can do this. I can get out of here. And when I see Missy again I’m gonna wring her neck. Oh, Doctor, please be okay, please…”

     Her throat tightened. She hadn’t seen him since the creepy-looking snake man took him away from her and Missy in the hospital—but oh, she’d heard him. Heard his deep, booming brogue over Skaro’s intercoms, demanding her safe return to him in a tone of voice she hadn’t heard in a very long time. He’d sounded fearsome…furious…frantic. 

     “The Doctor without hope,” Missy had crooned. The words had burned Clara like a taunt, but she’d felt too heart-wrung at the sound of the Doctor’s voice—too desperate to find him and grab him by that blasted old hoodie of his and shake him and wail _I’m alive, Doctor, I’m alive, I’m okay!_ until his blue-grey eyes turned on her in that soft way of his _—_ too overcome with all those emotions to glare at Missy and ask her why the Doctor should act so hopeless and ferocious over a mere _puppy_. 

     “Why don’t I ever think up a really great comeback until _hours_ later?” Clara muttered. 

     Another tremor shook the casing and made her stomach flip. She gritted her teeth, pushed all vengeful thoughts about Missy to the back of her head, and thought _left_ as another corner appeared on the screen. At the sight of the unmistakable brown goo pouring down the walls and engulfing a shaking, screaming Dalek a few feet away, she swallowed hard and leaned forward, as far as the wires connecting her skull to the casing would allow.

     _Fast. Go fast, fast as you can, don’t stop. Take a risk. What would the Doctor do?_

 _Run like hell, that’s what_ he’d _do._

_Hover. Hover, you stupid Dalek!_

The casing streaked forward and lifted a few inches off the ground. Clara held her breath, sick with dread, half-expecting the goo to leap off the walls and floor, slither into the smallest crack in the casing, and devour her, too. She remembered what the Doctor had told her of the first echo of her he ever met, a girl turned into a Dalek, and shuddered. 

     But she’d barely shoved _that_ thought away before she reached the end of the corridor safe and sound. Clara let out the breath she’d been holding in a choked exhale and telepathically ordered the casing to turn around and let her see what she’d just survived. The other Dalek had gone still. The goo still slithered down the hall towards her, but she could outrun it now. 

     “Okay,” Clara whispered. “Okay.” She shut her eyes, focused all her energies on her link with the casing. _Locate Gallifreyan physiognomy. Locate the Doctor._

The computer inside the casing chimed softly. She opened one eye, glanced at the screen. 

     Moving again. And fast. 

     _“Find the Doctor,”_ the casing blared. _“Find the Doctor!”_

     Not exactly comforting—she’d heard real Daleks scream that one too many times, and it never meant anything good—but Clara tried to relax. As long as she could get the casing to say something close to what she meant, she’d be okay. And besides…Missy would tell the Doctor where she was.

     Right? 

     _Sure she will. We’ve been working together. We both want to see the Doctor safe._

 _She’s not gonna stab me in the back with her pointy stick at_ this _point, right?_

Clara rounded a corner and gasped so sharply, she was sure it could be heard outside the casing. There he was. Tall, lanky, looking a little worse for the wear with soot and sweat streaking his weathered face and hands, his shoulders slightly slumped with exhaustion, breathing hard…

     But it was _him_. Her best, dearest, most wonderful friend in the whole universe. The man she loved. 

     “Doctor!” she shouted. 

     _“Doctor!”_ the casing echoed. 

     He whirled. The attack eyebrows went into full gear and he jabbed his finger at her. 

     “This city is about to be sucked into the ground, your own sewer is about to consume you,” he snapped. “There's no way you can win, there is _nothing_ you can do, so just tell me—where is Clara Oswald?”

     “It’s me, Doctor—I’m inside the casing!” Clara cried. 

     _“I am a Dalek!”_

Clara froze. _No no no no, we’ve gotta be a little more specific than that…_

“Yes, you’re a Dalek,” the Doctor retorted. “Where is Clara?”

     Clara cleared her throat and scowled as fiercely as she could at the screen. “I—am—inside!”

     _“I am a Dalek!”_

“Yes, I _know_ that you’re a Dalek!” the Doctor shouted, a renewed storm searing through what she realized now had been mere impatience in his eyes. “Where is Clara Oswald?”  

     Clara had been frightened several times over the past twelve hours. She’d seen planes frozen in the sky, she’d confronted a homicidal Missy, she’d let Colony Sarff wrap one of his snakes around her wrists, she’d been surrounded and alone in a crowd of Daleks, she’d been pushed down a dark, dank hole, and she’d fought back smothering claustrophobia inside this blasted casing. Not to mention the fact that she’d spent three whole weeks not knowing where the Doctor was, or if he was even still alive. 

     But this? This was _terrifying_. The Doctor glared at her like he wanted to rip her apart, limb from limb—

     _No, not_ me _! Just the Dalek! He doesn’t want to hurt_ me _. He just can’t see_ me _. Oh, Doctor…just see me!_

“It’s me, I'm right here!” she shouted. “It’s me, I’m in here! It’s Clara!”

     _“I am a Dalek! I am a Dalek!”_

Clara saw a flicker of movement in the corner of the screen and Missy appeared at the Doctor’s side with a Dalek gun. The Time Lady focused on the casing’s visual stem, effectively looking Clara in the eye. 

     “Doctor, stop!” Missy cried. He looked at her warily as she addressed the casing. “It's _you_ , isn't it? I mean, no offence, you all look alike—but it _is_ you?”

     Clara breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, it’s me.” When the Dalek translated it as a terse _“Affirmative,”_ she smiled and patted the arm of her seat with her restrained fingers. 

     The corner of Missy’s mouth twitched. She turned smoothly to the Doctor. 

     “Clara's dead, Doctor,” she murmured. “This is the one that killed her.”

     “ _What?!_ ” Clara cried. “No, Doctor, don’t listen to her! I’m inside this stupid casing—open it up—I’m Clara!”

     _“Do not listen to her. I am a Dalek, I am a Dalek!”_ the casing wailed.

     “I got her out of the city, but this one caught us and shot her down,” Missy said sorrowfully. “There was nothing I could do, I'm afraid.”

     “No, Doctor!”  

     “She ran. She screamed. I'm so glad you didn't have to see that.”

     “ _I’m Clara!_ ”

     _“I am a Dalek! I am a Dalek!”_

“This one's a mad one, isn't it?” Missy crooned. “I mean, it's almost like…like it's proud.”

     Clara strained at the restraints pinning her wrists and ankles to the seat. Missy moved behind the Doctor and slid the gun she held into his hand. The mere sight of it made Clara nauseated. She pulled harder, trying to get the casing to at least rock a little bit in protest—but it probably weighed ten times more than she did, and remained still. 

     “Kill it, Doctor,” Missy whispered. “They're all going to die anyway. Indulge yourself. Go on. Kill the Dalek.”

     “ _No!_ ” Clara screamed. “No, Doctor, please! Please, it’s Clara— _your_ Clara! Don’t kill me, Doctor, please please please _don’t_ —!”

     _“Do not kill me! Do not kill me!”_

The Doctor hadn’t said a word all this long time. His face had turned stony when Missy first said Clara was dead; then a bone-deep weariness settled into his eyes as she told him the “story.” Conflicting emotions warred in his expression at the chill steel of the gun sliding into his palm. But at the sound of the Dalek begging for its life, he jerked his arm up and aimed the gun squarely at its head. The look in his eyes was almost feral, mad with grief and fury. Clara quailed.  

     “Is Clara dead?” he shouted. 

     “ _No_!” Clara screamed. “Doctor, no! I’m not dead, I’m in here! Can you hear me?”

     _“I am a Dalek! I—am—alive!”_

“I'm your friend! I'm your friend!”

     _“I am your enemy. Your…ENEMY.”_

The Doctor’s fingers tightened around the gun and his jaw flexed. Clara sat back with a thud, tears clogging her throat and burning her eyes. 

     This was it, then. This was how she would die. Clara Oswald, dead at the hand of the man she trusted more than anyone else in the world…because he’d been lied to by the woman who’d taken advantage of his instinct to give _anyone_ a second chance.  

     “No,” Clara whispered. She blinked and two hot tears rolled down her face. “Please, _don’t_ …”

     _“Mercy. Mercy!”_

The Doctor froze. Just as startled as he, Clara jerked forward again.

     “You shouldn't be able to say that,” the Doctor whispered. 

     “Mercy!” Clara screamed desperately. “Mercy, Doctor!” 

     _“Mercy!”_ the Dalek screeched. 

     The fire flared back to life in the Doctor’s eyes; he pointed the gun at her once again. “That word shouldn't _exist_ in your vocabulary! How did Davros teach you to say that? Why aren’t you trying to kill me?”

     “Because I would _never_ kill you,” Clara choked. “You are the last person I would ever kill.”

     The Dalek, for once, said nothing, unable or unwilling to translate. The Doctor peered at it in cautious confusion. Clara dug her nails into the unyielding steel of her seat, focusing so intently that the wires hooked to her temples crackled with the tension. 

     “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, I love you with all my heart—and I’d rather die a million, _billion_ times for you than hurt a hair on your head. Please, Doctor, please just see me, _please._ I love you…”

     _“Mercy,”_ the Dalek whined. _“Mercy…”_

The Doctor took a staggering step back, swallowed like his throat was dry and raw, and lowered his arm to his side. “All right. All right, I’m puttin’ the gun down. Open your casing.”

     “How?!” Clara cried. 

     _“How?”_ the casing asked. 

     “Just think the word ‘open,’ ” the Doctor replied—and oh, now she could see it, a slight narrowing of his eyes that was part curiosity and part crazy, wild hope. “It’ll work.”

     Clara nodded, squeezing her eyes shut. Immediately she heard the groan of unlocking mechanisms and felt a rush of cool air on her stockinged legs. She opened her eyes. She had to blink several times from the sudden burst of light and the fact that tears blurred her vision, but there was no mistaking the sight of the Doctor’s mouth dropping open and his blue eyes widening in horror, joy, and…and…

     _Fear._

_He’s afraid. Why’s he afraid?_

“Ohhhh, look at that,” Missy tut-tutted. “Now _there’s_ a surprise!”

     The Doctor stared at Clara, but his voice, low and raspy, held a threatening tone not meant for her. “Missy… _run_.”

     “Oh, Doctor,” Clara sobbed. At the sound of her voice the Doctor sprang forward, dropping to his knees in front of her before she could say anything else and leaning in as close as he could. His gaze and fingertips skittered frantically over the electrodes in her temple. Clara could practically smell his terror now—or was that something else, something hot and sharp and… _acrid?_

_Regeneration. That’s what he smelled like when…_

_Oh. Oh no, no no no no, don’t do it, don’t you dare—_

     “In a way, this is why I gave her to you in the first place,” Missy crooned. “To make you _see_. The friend inside the enemy, the enemy inside the friend.”

     The Doctor ignored her. He looked at Clara—really looked at her, in the eye—and cupped her face in his hands. Fear turned, just for a moment, into raw grief. 

     “I’m sorry, Clara. I’m _so_ sorry,” he whispered.

     “Everyone’s a bit of both,” Missy added loudly. “Everyone’s…a _hybrid_.”

     The Doctor jerked his head over his shoulder. “I said, _run_!”

     Missy pulled one of her deranged smiles. “It wasn't me who ran, Doctor. That was always you.”

     With that she turned on her heel and sauntered off. The Doctor turned back to Clara, avoiding her gaze this time as he took one of the electrodes between his forefinger and thumb.

     “Try to relax,” he whispered. “This may hurt.”

     Clara felt her eyes widen in terror. “But—but Missy said it’s never been done befo—”

     “Not by _her_. Ready?”

     “No! I don’t wanna die in this thing, Doctor. _I don’t wanna die like Oswin!_ ”

     “You won’t, Clara, I promise.”

     Clara tried to breathe and let out a choking, sobbing gasp instead. “If I die, Doctor—”

     “Stop it!” the Doctor shouted. “Stop it, stop it! _You are_ _not dyin’ here_ , Clara Oswald, do you understand me? Say you understand!”

     Clara swallowed and closed her eyes. More tears rolled down her cheeks. “I…I understand.”

     “ _Good_. Now on the count of three. One, two—”

     Before he got to three he gave the wire a firm yank. Clara yelped, but other than a sharp tingle in her fingers and a warm, wet trickle running down the side of her face, she felt no different. The Doctor raised his eyebrows. 

     “Okay?” he asked. 

     “Okay,” Clara breathed. He switched hands, grasping one of hers while reaching for the other wire. This time he didn’t have to count. Clara just shut her eyes and whimpered through closed lips when the wire came out. 

     “You’re bleedin’ a bit, but we’ll fix that when we get back to the TARDIS,” he said, unlocking the restraints from her wrists and ankles. “You all right?”

     Clara nodded mechanically. “Yeah. My head feels a little fuzzy…”

     “That’s to be expected. C’mere.”

     He grabbed her arms just above her elbows and drew her out of the casing. As soon as her feet hit the ground her knees wobbled and gave way. She staggered, started to crumple; the Doctor quickly wrapped his arms around her and held her upright. 

     “Whoa whoa whoa, I’ve gotchya,” he whispered. “It’s okay…it’s okay…”

     Clara buried her face in his chest, curling her fists around the front of his soft hoodie. He held her tight and close, and she could feel him bending his head low over hers and pressing his lips into her hair. 

     She hadn’t felt this safe in three weeks.   

     “Clara, Clara,” he whispered. “My Clara.”

     “You’re okay,” she breathed. “You’re alive.”

     “Well, _obviously_. You didn’t think I was gonna give the Daleks the satisfaction of killin’ me after all this long time, did you?”

     Clara tipped her head back without lifting it off his chest. “You’re not gonna change on me, are you?”

     His eyes registered surprise, then understanding. He gave her one of his small smiles. 

     “No, Clara. I’m not gonna change.”

     “Good, ‘cause you smell like you might.”

     “ _I_ smell?! Listen to the little teapot callin’ the kettle black!”

     In spite of a new tremor beneath her feet, a lingering pain in her temples, and the adrenaline still racing through her veins, Clara laughed shakily and even he grinned and chuckled. The earthquake didn’t let up, though, and he quickly pushed her back. 

     “Feeling better?” he asked. Clara sniffed, nodded. “Good, ‘cause as long as you can walk outta here on your own and we can get past a horde of panicky Daleks, I’d call this a rousing success. Unless, of course, I have to carry you like a damsel in distress?”

     Clara gave another nervous laugh. “Honestly, I think I’d rather _die_.”

     “Oh, well, let’s not say things like that,” the Doctor replied a bit too quickly. He wrapped his long fingers around hers. “C’mon. Let’s leave the Daleks a surprise they won’t soon forget.”

 

————

 

That evening—by the TARDIS’ questionable standard of time—the shower ran for at least a half-hour. Clara sat on the shower floor with her forehead on her knees and her arms wrapped around her shins, letting the hot, pelting water and the smell of soap drive the grime, sweat, stench, and blood down the drain.  

     Purple bruises splotched her shoulder and hip from her fall down the sewer hole. The space between her shoulder blades burned where the Dalek energy burst had hit her. Her wrists were torn from the casing restraints. Even her ankles bore raw brush-burns from the ropes Missy had used to hang her upside down. And of course, her temples still ached from the electrodes. The hot, steamy shower was heaven sent. Clara hoped the TARDIS could sense her gratitude.

     Not even her calming surroundings could take away the memories, though. And it wasn’t just the memories from Skaro.

     _Missy. She killed a man. A family man, she said. And I thought she might kill me._

_All those planes. All those people inside ‘em. They must’ve been terrified._

_The snakes. I let a_ snake _coil itself around my hands._

_Oh God, I’m gonna be dreamin’ about that for a week, aren’t I?_

Clara shuddered and curled herself into an even tighter, smaller ball. _But I’d do it again. I’d do it for him…even though he’s obviously been lyin’ to me._

_Okay, not quite lying. If he’s been lying, it’s been by omission. Which means he’s been keepin’ secrets._

_“No more secrets, no more lies.” That’s what he said to me at Christmas, and I looked him in the eye and I said it right back to him._

_Oh, Doctor,_ why _?!_

Clara sniffled and lifted her head. A fluffy towel had appeared as if by magic over the top of the shower door. She got to her feet slowly, aware of every aching muscle. The water stopped pouring as soon as she grabbed the towel and wrapped it around herself. It was so huge, it fell to her knees.

     “Thank you,” she whispered. The lights flickered in sympathetic reply. The teacher and the TARDIS hadn’t always gotten along, but for once the ship seemed to know Clara needed a friendly gesture. 

     Once she’d slipped into her pajamas she crept to the console room where she knew she’d find the Doctor. Sure enough, she found him peering at one of its screens with his arms leaning against the console. He, too, looked like he’d had a wash and changed into clean clothes, but he still looked so tired, so absolutely _bone-weary_ as he focused all his attention on the screen in front of her.

     “What’re you lookin’ at?” she asked. 

     “Skaro,” he replied without looking at her. “I’m not naive enough to think this’ll be the end of the Daleks, so…I’m waiting to see how they’ll bounce back.”

     “You think it’ll happen that fast?”

     He quirked an eyebrow. “May have skipped forward a few months.”

     “Care to give me a peek?”

     He pushed the revolving screen towards her. She grabbed it by its handles, studying the scene before her with a deep frown of her own. She wasn’t that surprised to see either the forms of Daleks hovering over their wrecked metropolis or the evidences of their major rebuilding effort.

     “They don’t waste any time, do they?” she muttered. 

     “Daleks never do,” the Doctor said, drawing the screen back towards him. “Made in the image of their creator, after all.”

     “Do you think Davros is still alive?”

     The Doctor hesitated. Clara watched the emotions tear and tug across his face, but it was the indecision that startled her the most. What would he have to be indecisive about? 

     “Doctor?” she whispered.

     He sighed. “It was always a trap, Clara. Davros wanted to take advantage of any compassion or shame I felt towards him and then manipulate me into giving him some of my regeneration energy.”

     Clara blinked. “Regeneration energy. You gave Davros…then _that’s_ why…”

     A tired smile tugged one corner of the Doctor’s mouth. “Can you really smell it on me?”

     “I mean—yeah, I remember from last time—but that wasn’t what I was gonna say. Missy and I _saw_ it, coming out of the Daleks!”

     “Yeah, exactly. I told him I’d known what he was up to, but…I may or may not have told a bit of a half-truth there. Yes, I knew he needed the regeneration energy. No, I didn’t know he was gonna harness _that_ much of it. What I _did_ know was the effect it’d have on the sewers. And if that costs me an arm or a leg or a kidney down the road, well…at least it was for a good cause.”

     Clara pressed her lips together and folded her arms tightly over her chest. “Missy was pretty upset.” 

     “Good. There are things worth getting upset about. The concept of Daleks with regeneration energy would be one of ‘em.”

     Clara frowned. The Doctor furrowed his wiry eyebrows back at her. 

     “What?” he demanded.

     “We need to talk. About what happened.”

     He glanced to the side. “Which happening?”

     “Missy.”

     “Ah.” He pressed a few buttons, pulled a lever. “What do you want to know?”

     “Are you in love with her?”

     His face screwed up in a horrified scowl. “Am I— _what?!_ No!” 

     “Then why did you give _her_ your confession dial?”

     Once again, the Doctor hesitated. Clara unfolded her arms, stepped towards him; he stiffened, his eyes half-lidded and wary, as if he expected her to launch into a righteous rage like she had after her experiences on the Moon. But Clara only paused, reached out…and touched his hand as he clenched one of the levers.  

     “Talk to me,” she whispered, looking him straight in the eye. “I think I deserve that after the past three weeks.”

The Doctor pursed his lips and sighed. Slowly, she felt him relax under her hand.  

“We grew up together,” he murmured. “We did everything together…until we didn’t make sense to each other anymore.”

     “She turned evil?”

     The Doctor grimaced. His hand tightened again under her palm. “She was driven insane by someone I will _never_ forgive.”

     “But you forgive everybody, Doctor.”

     “Not _this_ man.” 

     “But you knew she was alive,” Clara prodded. “We saw Lethbridge-Stewart shoot her in the cemetery last summer. For all _I_ knew, she was dead. But _you_ sent her your confession dial.”

     The Doctor walked his free fingers along the console. “I had a hunch.”

     “Must’a been some hunch.” 

     “Yeah, well, Missy tends to do that,” the Doctor snapped, suddenly glaring at her. “She makes me think she’s dead, then turns up _very_ much alive in the most unexpected and inconvenient places. Believe me, after that happens enough times you start getting a ‘villagers versus the boy who cried wolf’ mentality!”

     “You don’t have to shout at me,” Clara warned. 

     “I’m _not_ shouting—” 

     “She said a confession dial was basically a glorified Last Will and Testament, Doctor— _and_ she said it was always delivered to a Time Lord’s best friend on the eve of his final day! His. Best. _Friend!_ Why didn’t you…when you have…”

     The Doctor frowned. Clara swallowed hard, blinked hard.

     “You could’ve sent it to me,” she whispered. 

     “And would you have known what to do with it?” he whispered back. 

     “I would if you’d have told me! Why _didn’t_ you? I would’ve helped you—I could’ve at least been with you—but oh no— _you_ had to go and face your demons alone! And then the planes stopped mid-air and Kate couldn’t find you and I couldn’t help her, and then Missy showed up and said I was just your…your _plaything_ , your _pet_ , and…”

     Her tears welled as the Doctor abruptly turned his whole body towards her, releasing the console that so often acted as his anchor and taking her firmly by the shoulders instead. He bent slightly so he could look her in the eye. His expression was stern and fierce, demanding—pleading—that she listen.  

     “If I’d sent you the confession dial you would’ve known just how scared I was—”

     Clara sniffled angrily. “Oh, believe me, I knew _that_ when Missy told me what it was—” 

     “—and I didn’t want _you_ to be scared without havin’ someone with you who knew what was goin’ on.”

     Clara sniffled again and lowered her head, unable to meet his gaze anymore and unwilling to let him see her chin quivering. For a moment, her shuddering breaths and the soft whir of the TARDIS engines were the only sounds to be heard. The Doctor waited, unmoving except a light, nervous rub of his thumbs against her shoulders. 

     “She said you were my _pet_?” he asked after a moment. 

     Clara nodded, tucking her damp hair behind her ear. “There was a couple, walkin’ a dog. She said I was the puppy and you and she were…”

     “Ah.”

     Not exactly the emphatic denial she’d been hoping for. Clara kept her head down, mortified…and suddenly felt him stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers. She glanced up and he smiled a sad, tender smile.  

     “You think I would’ve threatened to blow Skaro to kingdom come for a _puppy_?” he asked.

     Clara opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The Doctor raised his eyebrows, gestured an invitation with his head. She came more than willingly, resting her head against his chest as those long, thin, surprisingly strong arms of his wrapped all the way around her petite frame. 

     “I thought you were dead,” he murmured. 

     “But I’m _not_ ,” Clara whispered. “And I’m not leavin’ you, even though you can be an absolute _idiot_. You can count on that.”

     “Can I?”

     Her chest tightened at the unspoken heartbreak in his voice. She could promise him whatever she pleased, but at the end of the day she was still just a wide-eyed, Jane Austen-loving, five-foot-two schoolteacher, made of fragile human skin and bones that were never meant to travel through time and space unscathed—just like all his other, past companions. And he was…well. 

     He was storm and ice and fire and wonderful and not-quite-forever-but-close-to-it. 

     She would die one day. She would never live long enough to see _all_ of those new faces of his. She could promise him nothing. 

     _But oh, I’ve already promised you somethin’, can’t I? One thing. Just one thing._

Clara straightened, looked up at him, and laid her palm against his cheek.

     “No,” she whispered. “You _can’t_ count on it, Doctor. ‘Cause I never promised forever. But I _did_ promise you _my_ little lifetime. And if you’ll accept that in all its smallness, maybe it won’t hurt so much when it all does come to an end.”

     A fragile smile flickered over his face. “It’ll always hurt, Clara. It’ll hurt so badly I won’t be able to breathe. You can’t fix that.”

     “But it doesn’t have to hurt _today_. And it won’t have to hurt tomorrow, either, ‘cause we are gonna run so fast and laugh so hard and have one mad adventure after another—and we’re not gonna stop until my time runs out.” She gave him a watery smile and patted his chest with both hands. “But you know what, Doctor? We don’t have to think about that right now. There are just too many better ways to spend the time do we have.” 

     The Doctor said nothing, but his eyes glimmered and he swallowed so hard, she could hear it. A tear trickled down her cheek before she could stop it. He wiped it away with his thumb and ghosted his lips over her forehead. 

     “My Clara,” he murmured. “Are you _sure_ I don’t pay you?”

     She laughed tearfully. “Oh, Doctor…you know I don’t need to be paid.”

     “I’ve seen your paycheck for teachin’ those pudding brains. You could use a raise.”

     Clara shook her head and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. 

     “Take me to that planet with the wood-nymphs, like you promised me three weeks ago,” she whispered. “That’ll be better than a raise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll never quite forgive the directors/writers for not showing us how the Doctor got Clara out of that Dalek. Oh well. Guess that's why we have fanfiction ;)


	6. The Sinking of the Mary Carolina (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Clara travel back in time to the late 1700's for a relaxing cruise in the Caribbean Sea. But trouble always manages to find them, and this time it involves something and someone far more sinister than they would've expected in this time and place.

_If sailor tales to sailor tunes,_

_Storm and adventure, heat and cold,_

_If schooners, islands, and maroons,_

_And buccaneers, and buried gold,_

_And all the old romance, retold_

_Exactly in the ancient way,_

_Can please, as me they pleased of old,_

_The wiser youngsters of today:_

_So be it, and fall on!_

_—Robert Louis Stevenson,_ Treasure Island

* * *

 

The _Mary Carolina_ creaked and groaned cheerfully as she bobbed on the shimmering blue water, making her way towards one of the dozens of tiny, prosperous islands in the Caribbean Sea. _Barbados_ , the Doctor reminded himself as he strode down the steps of the poop deck. He remembered, before he reached the last few steps, to clasp his hands firmly behind his back and hold his head high—just as he’d seen Captain Applewhite do several times since he and Clara boarded the ship at Kingston this morning. 

     _Wouldn’t hurt to make ‘em think twice about tryin’_ my _patience,_ he thought grimly as he made very deliberate eye contact with one particularly surly-looking sailor. None of the crew seemed all that contented with their lot in life—and he hadn’t missed the glares they shot at Captain Applewhite behind the man’s back, either. 

     So much for the _Mary Carolina_ bein’ one of His Majesty’s pleasantest, most luxurious ships in the Caribbean. The Doctor could practically smell the discontent.

     He decided not to bring it up as he approached the small, petticoat-heavy figure leaning her elbows against the gunwale. Clara had her back to him and her face to the wind; her wide-brimmed straw hat with the ribbons tied underneath her chin and the pale pink, frilly dress made her look, in his opinion, like a porcelain doll. 

     (He’d already made the mistake of expressing this opinion aloud. She’d retorted without hesitation or mercy that _he_ if he left his cravat tied that snugly around his neck, everyone would think he was trying to hang himself.)

     “Enjoyin’ yourself?” he asked, leaning his own elbows on the gunwale at her side.

     Clara sighed in contentment. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The water’s clear as glass…it’s all warm and windy…no jets flyin’ overhead, no motorboats, no cell phones screamin’ at you inside your back pocket…”

     “Well, actually, I may have my phone in my pocket.”

     She cut her dark, sparkling eyes at him beneath her hat. “You know what I mean. I just hope it’s on silent.”

     He frowned, reached into his pocket. “Now it is.”

     Clara snickered, easing closer to him and winding both her arms around his left one. “Seriously though, this is so much better than any _Pirates of the Caribbean_ amusement ride Disneyland could offer. Thank you.”

     “Don’t mention it. Although I hope it doesn’t get too realistic.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “Well, I’d rather not have to deal with pirates if I can help it.”

     Clara smirked. “Oh come on, Doctor. You don’t think you could handle Captain Jack Sparrow if it came down to that?”

     “I have no doubt I could knock Captain Jack Sparrow into the second Tuesday of next week if I had a mind to! Of course, it would be completely unnecessary—he’s usually inebriated and, therefore, appallingly clumsy. A bit of Venusian Akido, and I’d send him tumblin’ overboard.”

     “You know what I love about you? You’re _so_ modest.”

     The Doctor decided to ignore that and narrowed his eyes against the brisk, salty breeze. “No, Clara…I’m talkin’ about _real_ pirates—the savage buccaneers that populate all your old stories, the kind that’d make your blood run cold. They terrorized these seas well into the 19th century, y’know. And with the French Revolution raging across the Atlantic and the British trying to keep a stranglehold on their Caribbean colonies…small wonder the pirates are lookin’ to take advantage of a crisis.”

     Clara frowned. “But you did make sure to arrange our trip on the _Mary Carolina_ when things were a bit quieter, didn’t you?”

     The Doctor winced, tilted his head from side to side. “Well…I may have been more preoccupied with makin’ sure I could get us some relatively comfortable quarters to research that bit.”

     Clara raised her eyebrows, sighed, and loosened the ribbons under her chin until the straw hat fell back against her shoulder blades. Her hair—mostly a lush wig, since she’d insisted that women in this time period didn’t have short hair unless they were figments of Victor Hugo’s future imagination and had to sell their locks for money—stirred in the wind as she looked up at him, half-amused and half-irritated. 

     “Sometimes I think you just _enjoy_ runnin’ into trouble,” she muttered. 

     “Well now, wouldn’t you be bored if I only let you play in the kiddie pool?”

     She responded to that with a laugh, a roll of her eyes, and her dark head on his shoulder—an answer in the affirmative if ever there was one. 

* * *

They were hardly the only passengers aboard the _Mary Carolina_. Clara had been sure to take notice of the retired, obese Admiral Cole and his snooty, pinched-faced wife, their spinster nieces the Miss Harrisons, and a very handsome young surgeon by the name of Andrews. 

     All seven of them were invited to dinner with Captain Applewhite and his senior officers that evening. Clara curled her toes in excitement and tried to keep her giddy smiles under control. This was just way too awesome: wearing Elizabeth Swann-style clothes and trying to speak like a well-bred Englishwoman of the 1790’s, listening while a weather-beaten captain regaled his guests with stories at the head of his dinner table.

     _Pirates of the Caribbean_ , eat your heart out _._

“—and we outran that frog all the way back into English waters!” Captain Applewhite chuckled, leaning back in his seat while the cook—a broad-shouldered, leather-faced, silent man—refilled his wine glass. “It was quite a hair-raising experience, but thank God for the cool heads of my crew. I just hope this new lot can handle themselves under fire just as well.”

     “This is a new crew, then?” the Doctor asked, his voice low and level.  

     “Aye—well, at least a good portion of them are new to this ship. Most of my men were struck down by a sudden epidemic of the pox about a month ago. God be praised, my officers and I were spared, and about a third of my old crew as well, but…” Applewhite clicked his tongue, shook his head. “It was a d— shame. As I said, I can only hope these new men are up to the task and won’t lose their nerve if we should run into pirates.”

     “Pirates?” the younger of the Miss Harrisons whimpered beside Clara. “Surely not, Captain!”

     “Ah, well, Miss Emily, I shouldn’t worry _too_ much about it,” Captain Applewhite said, oblivious to a well-aimed kick Clara delivered underneath the table at the Doctor’s shin. “It’s true, at least a dozen pirates are known to lurk in and around these waters—and one in particular has enough exploits attached to his name to keep us on the alert. But the _Mary Carolina_ is well-prepared for an attack. She’s as well-armed as any ship of the line in His Majesty’s Navy!”

     “Indeed she is,” the enormous Admiral Cole rumbled from his seat. “I have never been so impressed with a mere merchant ship.”

     Captain Applewhite mimed a bow in his seat.

     “This pirate you mentioned,” the Doctor said, scooting his long legs well away from Clara’s toes, “what’s his name?”

     “Well, Dr. Smith, they call him Red Eye, on account of a crimson eyepatch. His ship is called the _Hour Glass_ , and he and his crew have been terrorizing the Caribbean and the South American coasts for some dozen or so years now.” Applewhite sucked his teeth. “D—d troublesome, Master Red Eye. And elusive. They say he can strip an entire ship and butcher its crew in a matter of an hour.” 

     “Have you ever seen him yourself?” Clara asked. 

     A scandalized silence fell at the enthusiasm in her voice. Lady Cole narrowed her eyes and the Miss Harrisons exchanged astonished glances, but to Clara’s relief, Captain Applewhite only chuckled.

     “You are nothing, Mrs. Smith, if not tenaciously curious,” he said with a merry twinkle in his eye. “You’ve been makes inquiries ever since you boarded this morning. It does my heart good to see an intelligent young woman taking an interest in the maritime heritage of our great civilization. And how appropriate, too, since your husband informed me he’s setting up a practice on Barbados. You, I think, will _not_ be intimidated by island life.” 

     Clara avoided making eye contact with the Doctor at all costs. “Not much intimidates me, Captain—not even pirates.”

     “Capital, Mrs. Smith, capital. But I’m afraid that in this one case, I cannot satisfy your curiosity. I’ve never seen Red Eye myself. And none who see him live to tell the tale.”

     The elder Miss Harrison squinted at him. “If that’s the case then how do we know _anything_ about him?”

     “Ah, excellent question. We know what we do from the messages he sends to the various harbors in the Caribbean. He threatens all manner of harm to our ships and to the magistrates on Jamaica. And then, of course, there are the ships that go missing for weeks and turn up again in old coves—skeletons, mere skeletons. It’ll make your blood run cold.”

     “Well, in that case,” young Dr. Andrews burst in cheerfully, “let us talk of happier things! If, as you say, the _Mary Carolina_ can withstand any attack, then surely we can indulge in far more carefree conversation.”

     “Hear hear,” old Admiral Cole growled, and the Miss Harrisons raised their trembling glasses in agreement. 

     Only Clara and the Doctor remained silent, exchanging meaningful glances across the table—while Lady Cole narrowed her eyes at them both in baleful disapproval. 

* * *

The Doctor enjoyed Clara’s company. He enjoyed it immensely. But sometimes she could be incredibly distracting. 

     Considering the fact that she was darting around their cramped quarters and talking a mile a minute in a loud, giddy whisper while _he_ tried to focus on the flickering interface of his sonic sunglasses, this was definitely one of those times. 

     “Did you see the look on Lady Cole’s face when I asked Captain Applewhite if he’d seen Red Eye himself?” she giggled, unlacing her dress and kicking off her shoes at the same time. “You’d have thought I’d just put a toad in her wine. Although I’m pretty sure that the younger Miss Harrison would faint dead away if she even saw a toad. Heaven help us if we ever actually ran into a pirate. It might kill her.”

     “The way you’re talkin’, anyone would think you _wanted_ to see a pirate,” the Doctor muttered from where he sat in the narrow bunk. 

     Clara frowned, folded the dress into the trunk at the end of the bed. “It’s not that I _want_ to see a pirate, it’s just—”

     “Just what?” 

     She hesitated. Through the information flashing across the dark lenses, he watched as she brought her hands to the top edge of her corset and unsnapped its clasps. “I dunno. It’s just that we can’t seem to get away from adventure and peril no matter what we’ve planned, so we might as well roll with it. I mean, seriously—it’s like the Orient Express all over again.”

     The Doctor snatched the glasses off his face. “Okay—first of all—it’s _not_ the Orient Express all over again.”

     Clara raised her eyebrows. “No?”

     “ _No!_ For one thing, we’re not in separate bedrooms this time—we haven’t had a fight recently so far as I can remember—and for another, I’ll swear on whatever you want me to swear on that I had no ulterior motive in choosing _this_ particular ship on _this_ particular week of 1793!”

     Clara put her hands on her hips with a smirk. “And the fact remains that you promised me a nice, relaxing little trip after everything that happened with the Fisher King.”

    “Well, if you prefer to be bored out of your mind instead then you should go and sunbathe on a beach in Brighton. Or Florida. Nothin’ to bother you there except sunburns, rowdy children, and sharks.”

     Clara giggled, rolled up the corset, and placed it in the trunk on top of her dress. In the simple linen shift she’d worn underneath all those layers she suddenly looked terribly fragile. _Tough as nails, my Impossible Girl…and yet if I’m not careful, she could break into a million pieces_ … 

     “I never said I _wanted_ to be bored,” she said, peeling off her wig and running a hand through her real hair. “In fact, you’ll notice I never actually uttered a word of complaint.”

     The Doctor snapped out of his grim reverie and snorted. “Perhaps I should have your head checked, then. People aren’t really supposed to be excited about runnin’ into murderous, butcherin’ pirates.”

     “Well, I wasn’t that excited about runnin’ into a murderous mummy, either, but you certainly made it worth my while,” she retorted. She had approached the bunk and now she waved her hands at him in a clear command to scoot over—but he merely raised an eyebrow, returned his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose, and gestured at the space beside him. She rolled her eyes and clambered over his long legs. 

     “Why do _I_ have to sleep next to the wall?” she muttered, drawing the blankets up to her waist.

     “Because it puts me between you and the door.”

     “That’s really sweet of you, but I don’t know that I like the idea of having five inches of wood between me and the sea.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “What are you lookin’ at so intently, anyway?”

     “Transmission from the TARDIS. I accessed her logs, lookin’ for any information about Red Eye.”

     “She’s still followin’ us in the atmosphere, then. Find anything?”

     This time the Doctor sighed—heavily—and took off the sunglasses. “No. And I find that very disconcerting. Why would the TARDIS not have any information about this particular pirate from the last decade of the 1700’s?”

     Clara frowned. “That _is_ odd. I don’t suppose you tried translatin’ the name into, say, French? Or Spanish? And then cross-referencin’ any information with that?”

     “I did try that. Closest thing I got was a reference to an intergalactic art dealer from the 29th century whose name in a completely alien tongue translated—very roughly—to ‘Red Eye.’ ”

     “Huh.”

     “Mm-hmm.”

     The two time travelers sat in silence for a moment, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. After a few minutes he glanced at her and saw her gnawing her bottom lip, her eyebrows all knotted in concentration. When he nudged her with his shoulder, she jumped. 

     “Go on to sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll sort it.”

     Clara grimaced in dismay. “Oh, come on. I wanna work the puzzle with you!”

     “Another minute or two and you’ll be nodding off. The TARDIS and I will keep lookin’ for clues. _You_ get some rest. What do you lot call it…your ‘beauty sleep?’ ”

     She laughed softly. “Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

     “Well, take it. Your beauty sleep—your forty winks—your _siesta_. I’ll wake you as soon as I find something.” 

     Clara still hesitated, fingering his sleeve. He leaned in and pressed a quick, light kiss into the space between her eyebrows; she sighed, smiled in resignation, and eased herself down and underneath the blankets.  

     “All right, fine,” she whispered. “Just don’t stay up too late, Dr. Smith.”

     “Aye-aye, Mrs. Smith.”

     He watched, amused and yet intensely fascinated, as she settled on her side, tucked her hands beneath her chin, and closed her eyes. Her small, cold feet brushed his leg. He cupped her head in his hand, stroking her hair with slow, gentle movements until her breathing evened and all the tension drained out of her. 

     “My Clara,” he whispered into the quiet. He smiled to himself for just a moment, then slipped the sunglasses back on and tapped the top corner firmly. 

     People didn’t just disappear from history books. Especially not pirates. 

     There was something he was missing, and he just had to find it…

* * *

Clara dreamed she was in the lookout’s nest at the top of the _Mary Carolina_ ’s mast, shielding her eyes with her hand while the wind tore through her hair. The big blue sea stretched for miles in every direction, broken only by the sight of a great ship racing towards them with its black sails unfurled and billowing. Her heart jumped in her throat. A hand slipped into hers and she looked up, saw the Doctor. 

     _“Let me save you,”_ he whispered. He pressed the sonic sunglasses into her palm. She looked down, and saw with horror that her hand was materializing, and she felt a blast of cool air and smelled the distinctive smell of the TARDIS, and it was enveloping her and snatching her away—but not him. 

     He was staying. He was staying to face down the pirates and…and he was sending her away … _just like at Trenzalore_. 

     She tried to scream. No sound came out of her mouth, but somewhere on the wind—and _not_ from the fast-approaching pirate ship—she heard an odd, high-pitched voice break into song.   

_“_ _Half a pound of tuppeny rice, half a pound of treacle, that's the way the money goes…”_

A crash. A rough, frantic movement beside her. The nightmare began to collapse on itself. 

     _“POP—goes the weasel!”_

“Clara, wake up.”

     “Mmmph?” Clara moaned, peeling hair off her sweaty face. “What’s goin’ on—”

     _BANG BANG BANG!_

Gunfire. Clara’s eyes flew open and she bolted upright just as the Doctor threw the blankets back and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. 

     “Get up—get dressed,” he snapped. “We’re under attack.”

     “Pirates?” Clara gasped. 

     “Worse than that,” he muttered, slamming his feet into his shoes. “I’ve been awake the entire time, listenin’. The lookout never called out a warning about an oncoming ship.”

     Clara snapped herself into her corset and pulled on her dress as fast as she could. The Doctor jerked his coat on over his linen shirt, unhooked the lantern from the ceiling, put his sunglasses on, and held out his hand. Clara grasped it. He opened the door, looked both ways, and drew her out into the darkened passage. 

     Almost immediately, the Coles’ cabin door flew open and the admiral aimed a pistol at them.

     “Don’t shoot—it’s just us,” the Doctor hissed. 

     “Oh, thank God,” Admiral Cole gasped. “I thought for certain you were—”

     “Mutineers?” the Doctor whispered. “Obviously they haven’t come this far down below decks—or else they don’t think the passengers are much of a threat.”

     “ _Mutineers_?” Clara gasped. 

     “May they all be hung by the nearest yardarm,” Lady Cole muttered venemously, materializing behind her husband in her nightclothes. “Edward, we must alert Thomasina and Emily—they’ll be frightened out of their wits.”

     The Doctor moved a little further down the passage, drawing Clara along with him; he pushed against a half-open cabin door with his fingertips. “Dr. Andrews is already up and about. Idiot’s probably gotten himself caught in the crossfire by now.”

     “Okay, so a mutiny,” Clara said, tugging his hand. “What do we do? Do we go above, try to calm things down, talk some sense into whoever’s leading the revolt?”

     “Once mutineers have taken the final step they’ll never listen to reason,” the Doctor muttered. “They’ll assume they’ve gone too far—and that any alternatives to runnin’ the high seas will only take ‘em straight to the scaffold.”

     “And they will certainly leave no civilian passengers alive to testify against them should they ever be caught,” Admiral Cole rumbled angrily. “We must put up a strong resistance here. Margaret, the pistols in my trunk—”

     “No no _no_!” the Doctor snapped, shoving the sunglasses into his curls and glaring at the Admiral so ferociously, Cole actually took an awkward step back. “Six passengers against God knows how many of the crew? You wouldn’t stand a chance. No, this is a matter of takin’ back the Mary Carolina through much cleverer strategies—”

     But before he could get another word in edgewise, footsteps pounded down the steps from the top deck. Admiral Cole aimed his pistol again; Lady Cole grabbed his wrist and yanked his arm down. The Doctor thrust Clara between himself and the door just behind them—which promptly flew open, nearly throwing her backwards into the arms of the quavering Miss Harrisons. 

     “Hands level with your eyes!” a rich, deep voice boomed. “Backs to the wall, unless you wish to be run through and made into fish bait!” 

     Clara regained her balance—and stood her ground at the Doctor’s side, not behind him. If he shot her a glare, she didn’t notice; her gaze was too squarely fixed on the tall, broad-shouldered figure marching towards them through the dark. A troop of men followed close behind, some of them dragging a bloodied Captain Applewhite between them. 

     When the leader came within the pool of light cast by the Doctor’s lantern, Clara’s stomach dropped. 

     “Dr. Andrews,” the Doctor murmured. “I might’ve known.”

     Dr. Andrews half-frowned, half-smirked. “Might you, Dr. Smith?”

     “Of course. How else does a pirate ‘strip an entire ship and butcher its crew in a matter of an hour’ without ever being caught? Easy answer. You conceal your own ship in an isolated cove somewhere nearby, no doubt—and then you quickly forge a new identity for yourself, scatter your crew in Kingston harbor, and covertly hire them out to a captain who’s just lost his own crew to one of the appalling health crises of the 18th century. Honestly, it’s all a bit _Treasure Island—_ and that’s a good ninety years off yet. Impressive.”

     “Wait, what?” Clara cried. “You mean he’s—?”

     Dr. Andrews chuckled. “Rather clever, Dr. Smith, I’ll grant you that. Thankfully, you’ll never get a chance to boast about your ingenuity before a court of law.”

     “Oh, I never bother with lawyers,” the Doctor deadpanned. “Give ‘em an inch and they’ll take your money, your civil rights, and your firstborn child—and somehow convince you in the end that they’re doin’ _you_ a favor.”

     “Dr. Smith—really—is this a time for banter?” Admiral Cole spluttered.

     “No indeed it is not,” Dr. Andrews—or Red Eye, as Clara supposed she ought to call him now—said, a new and wary tone creeping into his smooth voice. He took a step closer. Clara gulped and tightened her grip on the Doctor’s hand. The Doctor didn’t even flinch. 

     “What do you find so amusing, Dr. Smith?” Red Eye murmured. “The fact that my jolly crew and I could so easily take the _Mary Carolina_ by complete and utter surprise in the dead of night? Or perhaps you’re wondering why I’d even waste my time with a mere store of rum, foodstuffs, and textiles such as my men will soon pillage down below?”

     “Not at all,” the Doctor said coolly. “ _I’m_ just wonderin’ why a cyborg art dealer from the 29th century would spend so much time buildin’ up the persona and reputation of an 18th century pirate…when surely he’s got enough artifacts to buy and sell where _he_ comes from. And of course, I’m wonderin’ how he got his hands on time travel technology, but that’s a secondary concern.”

     Clara stared at him open-mouthed. So did Red Eye—but only then, in the stunned silence that hung over the dark, stuffy corridor did she notice it: the unmistakable flicker of red, discreet evidence of artificial optic hardware, in the corner of his eye. 

     “I believe you know far too much, Dr. Smith,” Red Eye hissed, all pretense of charm long gone. 

     To Clara’s everlasting horror, exasperation, and wonderment, the Doctor smiled broadly. 

     “Oh, believe _me_ ,” he replied, “I’m just gettin’ warmed up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...(*cue dramatic theme music, roll credits, et cetera*)
> 
> P.S. Cookies for anyone who got the little "Victoria" reference.


	7. The Sinking of the Mary Carolina (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to take back control of an 18th century ship from 29th century pirates? The Doctor has a plan...but even that falls apart when the pirates decide to take Clara as a bargaining chip instead. 
> 
> (Note: nothing bad happens to Clara, I promise, but I do have a very mild trigger warning for one scene that's clearly stated. Once the scene's over you're good, and like I said, nothing bad actually happens, but the implications are there. This chapter is also contains a little more violence but nothing more than what you'd expect in a Doctor Who episode.)

_Will Turner:_ _“This is either madness, or brilliance.”_

_Jack Sparrow: “It’s remarkable how often those two traits coincide.”_

_—The Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl_

* * *

“Where is it? _Answer me_ , you blathering fool!”

     One of Red Eye’s subordinates delivered another jaw-shattering blow to Captain Applewhite’s quaking form. The Doctor clenched his fingers as best as he could, considering he was currently tied wrist-to-wrist, back-to-back with Clara on the floor of the _Mary Carolina_ ’s cargo hold. The Coles, the Miss Harrisons, and the remaining one-third of the crew who hadn’t been part of Red Eye’s mutiny flinched as Applewhite groaned and coughed, never getting a chance to catch his breath before the scoundrel hit him again.  

     It was enough to make the Doctor burn with rage. He gritted his teeth and strained against the thick ropes. Clara grunted behind him in discomfort. 

     “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s just—I can’t—loosen ‘em…”

     “Give it up, Dr. Smith,” Admiral Cole whispered on the other side of the mast. “We might as well accept our fate and die as men.”

     “And what about _us?_ ” whimpered poor Emily Harrison, who’d already had two fainting fits since they were dragged down into the hold. “How am _I_ , a lady, supposed to die as a _man_ , Uncle?!”

     “It’s just a metaphor,” Clara whispered as she gave the ropes as hard a yank as she could.

     “Well, I take great offense at that metaphor!”

     Clara sighed. “Same, girl.”

     In spite of the situation the Doctor smirked, but his amusement lasted only a few seconds before the pirate struck Captain Applewhite one last time. The captain crumpled and lay still. All the prisoners froze. The Doctor swallowed down a sick, heavy dread. 

     _No. Focus. You move on. You move on, try to save the next one. You can’t afford to waste time mourning. Focus, Doctor, focus._

To his relief, Applewhite let out a frail groan. The pirate—the cook who’d served them dinner just a few hours ago—swore under his breath in disappointment, but made no other move to finish the job. He stormed up the steps and out of the hold, calling angrily for his captain.

     As soon as the door slammed shut behind him, the Doctor dragged himself (and Clara, by necessity) across the floor so he could face their fellow prisoners.

     “Right—we’ve got five minutes, max!” he hissed. “The pirates are lookin’ for something specific, and the longer they scour the place without findin’ it the worse it’ll be for the rest of us. So just tell me: what is it?”

     Lady Cole glared at him. “Why should you care? You are a physician—you _ought_ to be trying to tend to poor Captain Applewhite!”

     The Doctor glanced at the captain, who’d slowly eased himself into a more comfortable position. “At least he’s breathing—probably just has a concussion.”

     “Doctor,” Clara chided.

     “Well, there’s nothin’ I can do without my sunglasses, and they’re upstairs with Red Eye!” 

     He felt her slump against him and might’ve been worried if she hadn’t sat up almost immediately and jerked at the ropes again. _That’s my Impossible Girl_ , he thought proudly, peering through the dim light at the Coles. 

     “You look like a man with a lot on his conscience, Admiral. What are the pirates looking for?”

     “Don’t you dare, Edward,” Lady Cole snapped. “Don’t you _dare_ …”

     Admiral Cole ignored her—probably an act of valor in and of itself. “If I tell you, you’ll only be another person to suffer for such a secret. Nay, there will be _dozens_ more, if you count your wife, my nieces, and these men as well! I cannot have that on my conscience.”

     “But I’m the only person who can possibly help you on this ship,” the Doctor snapped. 

     “How?!”

     Clara cleared her throat. “Red Eye isn’t from this time, and neither are we. The Doctor really is the only one here who can engage Red Eye on an even playing field.”

     “Exactly—and I know how I’m gonna do it,” the Doctor added. “I just need my…my tools.”

     “The glasses?” Clara whispered. 

     “The glasses.”

     “ ‘Not from this time?’ ” Lady Cole repeated caustically. “What is that supposed to mean?”

     “It means we’re from your future,” the Doctor replied just as sharply, “so unless you’d prefer to sit here and wait for Red Eye and his men to slit your throats and throw you overboard like they’ve obviously done with Captain Applewhite’s officers, you have no choice but to take your chances with us. _What are the pirates looking for?_ ”

     The Coles hesitated, the Miss Harrisons quivered, the innocent crew members glanced at each other—but the Doctor only glared at Lady Cole until she sighed and turned her head away.

     “Oh, just tell them, Edward,” she muttered. “What do we have to lose?”

     The admiral sighed, rested his massive chin on his massive chest. “It…it is a gemstone…of inestimable value. It was found on the Jamaican coast a twelvemonth ago and has been in the keeping of the Governor. He entrusted it to…to _me._ To present as a-a gift to His Majesty.”

     “Where is it?”

     “In one of those barrels of gunpowder,” the admiral whispered. “In a velvet bag. Applewhite believed it would be safest and best-hidden there. We marked the lid of the barrel with a St. George’s Cross.”

     The Doctor and Clara both jerked their heads around, facing the barrels lining one wall of the hold. They were several yards away, past the now-unconscious captain and the rickety steps to the upper deck. 

     “There’s got to be more to it than that, though,” Clara whispered. “An art dealer from the 29th century wouldn’t bother with a mere gemstone. Gotta be an alien artifact or somethin’.”

     “I wouldn’t be so quick to assume _that_ ,” the Doctor muttered. “Imagine if your first edition of _Moby Dick_ survived nine centuries. What would it be worth in a futuristic auction?”

     “But a gem’s a gem. It’s valuable no matter what, and unless it’s man-made then you _know_ it’s old.”

     The Doctor tilted his head to one side. “Touché. You’re right: gotta be an alien artifact.”

     “Plan?”

     “Provoke Red Eye into bringin’ me upstairs so I can get the sunglasses. He’s at least part-cyborg. If I short out his mainframe, the pirates’ll be without a leader—and without a leader, they won’t know how to function. Bit like a hive mind, pirate crews.”

     “So _you’ll_ step into the power void?” Clara asked.

     “Why not? Always wanted to try my hand at bein’ a buccaneer.”

     “And the gem?”

     “Well, that depends on what it actually is.”

     He heard her pull in a breath as if she were about to ask another question—but before she got a word out the door overhead opened again. Red Eye stormed down the steps, dressed now in a truly swashbuckling black coat with a gleaming sword at his hip and a crimson patch over his cyborg eye. Six of his men followed on his heels. Captain Applewhite lifted his head a few inches off the floor for just a moment before letting it drop again in utter pain and exhaustion. 

     “I understand our captain insists on remaining uninformative,” the pirate-lord said, his voice loud and exasperated as he strode into the prisoners’ midst. “But perhaps some of _you_ are not nearly as committed to this ship’s treasure.”

     “What are you looking for, Red Eye?” the Doctor asked calmly. 

     Red Eye stuck out his jaw. “Before I answer that question, let me pose one of my own. How did _you_ know who I am?”

     “Easy. I’m not from this time or this space anymore than you are. The discussion of your alter ego last night aroused my curiosity; I began doing my research and found no reference in any Earth records to a pirate named Red Eye. I cross-referenced the title, though, and found an art dealer from the 29th century who dealt in millenia-old artifacts. I reasonably assumed the pirate and the art dealer couldn’t possibly be the same person…” The Doctor paused, narrowed his eyes. “…until _you_ came down to the passenger deck, and I noticed for the first time that you had an artificial eye. Hadn’t noticed it before in the stronger light. Talk about anachronistic for the pre-Regency Caribbean.”

     Red Eye smirked. “Smart, Dr. Smith. Smart. Although I suppose I shouldn’t call you that any more than you should call me ‘Dr. Andrews.’ ”

     “Just ‘the Doctor’ will be fine. Now I’ll ask you again: what are you looking for?”

     Red Eye frowned. He reached into his pocket; the Miss Harrisons whimpered in terror, but he only squatted next to the Doctor and Clara and opened his hand. A small, gleaming chip lay in his palm; as soon his fingers fully opened a holographic display flickered up from it, showing a small, sapphire-blue stone. 

     “Draveen,” Red Eye murmured. “The Stone of Life. As the old stories go, the one who claims it will have the gift of immortality. It’s been missing for eleven hundred years, though…and I intend to test the legends.”

     “If you had half a brain in your head, you’d know immortality is more of a curse than a gift—but that’s beside the point,” the Doctor growled. “Why would an alien stone like this be on Earth?”

     “Because according to those same stories, the Morvales concealed it here when they were being chased from their home-system by their enemies. I managed to track it down to this general area, along with a few other…valuable items for my art gallery.”

     “So you try your hand at old-fashioned piracy long enough to terrorize the people here in _this_ period, and long enough to collect enough antiques for a gallery that’ll be famous throughout the universe one day.”

     “Precisely,” Red Eye said smugly. “So. Where is it?”

     Silence. He held out the hologram to the Coles. The admiral looked away; his wife glared; the Miss Harrisons cowered; the crew shifted uncomfortably. Red Eye curled his fingers and shot to his feet, snatching a massive pistol out of his belt and pointing it at Applewhite’s prone form.

     “Wait!” the Doctor cried. “I’ll make a deal with you. Bring me upstairs and I’ll tell you where it is…alone.”

     Red Eye paused. “And why should I remove _you_ from this confinement?”

     “Because I don’t want to involve the rest of these people. If there’s any trouble or you have a problem with my information, then only _I_ suffer! All right? This is between you and me, Red Eye…time traveler to time traveler. And when you get the Draveen, you’ll let the rest of them go.”

     Red Eye loomed over him, hands on his hips and a cool, calculating look in his eye. His gaze skittered to the side, to Clara. The Doctor’s breath caught. 

     “She’s a time traveler as well, I suppose?” Red Eye asked quietly. 

     Clara sat up a little straighter. She’d been so quiet over the past few minutes, but now she tilted her head back and looked the pirate straight in the eye. “I am.”

     “Then as a time traveler _and_ his wife I’m sure you know all his secrets.”

     Clara said nothing. The Doctor felt a needle of fear run up his spine. Red Eye snapped his fingers; the men who’d followed him in stepped forward. The cook who’d beaten Applewhite senseless planted his enormous hands on the Doctor’s shoulders, pinning him firmly in place while the other untied Clara and dragged her to her feet. 

     “I believe,” Red Eye said, “I’ll get far more entertainment out of extracting information from Mrs. Smith, Doctor. I’ll bring her back when I’m finished with her…and then I’ll give you all a glimpse of the Draveen before I send you to your deaths.”

     He snapped his fingers again and Clara’s captor shoved her forward, his hands wrapped tight around her upper arms. That was too much: the Doctor clenched his teeth and tried to jump to his feet, but the cook slammed him down and he landed flat on his back with a breathless groan. Clara twisted around, her hair straggling in front of her pale face. 

     “Doctor!” she cried. “It’s okay. _It’s okay_.”

     She raised her eyebrows and caught his eye just before her captor forced her to the steps. The Doctor swallowed hard and pushed himself upright, knowing exactly what that look on her face 

had meant and hoping with all his might that she knew what she was doing. 

* * *

_** Trigger warning: attempted abuse discreetly implied (but firmly nipped in the bud) **_

Clara tried to keep her breathing even as Red Eye shoved her into Captain Applewhite’s old cabin and slammed the door behind the two of them. She spun on her heel and faced him, throwing her head back and glaring at him as defiantly as she knew how. 

     _Come on, Oswald. You’ve done this before. Remember the Sheriff of Nottingham? Out-think him, out-talk him, stroke his ego a bit. You’ve got this. Just keep him at arm’s length._

“Let us speak as equals, Mrs. Smith,” Red Eye said, flipping his eyepatch back. “Or should I call you something else? You may call me ‘Tyrone,’ if you like.”  
     “And you, Tyrone, can just keep right on calling me ‘Mrs. Smith,’ ” Clara retorted. 

     He scoffed and stepped closer. “Is that _really_ your name?”

     Clara backed up. “Maybe, maybe not. But I like the sound of it.”

     He took another step towards her. Clara darted to the left. There wasn’t much room to maneuver in here. Applewhite’s bunk, desk, trunks, and a chest of drawers bolted to the wall made it seem a lot smaller than it was—and of course, everything had been upturned and scattered about in the pirates’ mad search for the Draveen. Clara almost tripped over a heap of white shirts. 

     _The sunglasses. Where are the sunglasses?!_

     “So!” she cried, clapping her hands together as she kept moving. “Immortality. Bet you could make the most of that, eh? Keep your galleries runnin’ for hundreds of years while you streak through the centuries, stealin’ treasures from everyone from the Romans to the Aztecs to the Victorians to goodness-knows-who further along in the future?”

     He chuckled, taking a long stride that caught her by surprise and almost cornered her between the chest of drawers and the bunk. “You wouldn’t believe the things we’ve already brought back. Trunks full of gold…barrels of molasses and rum that my visitors in the future can sample for themselves…precious jewelry from certain aristocratic passengers…” 

     “Ah, well!” Clara laughed. “You’ve got yourself set up for success—and I’ll admit, it’s a pretty watertight plan…except for one thing.”

     “Oh?” he asked, taking a very long step this time and throwing his arms out on either side of her head. His palms slammed against the wall, blocking her escape. Clara’s mouth went dry.

     “And what might that one thing be?” he hissed. 

     _Courage, Clara._ It was her own thought, but it had taken on the Doctor’s low, warm Scottish burr. Clara swallowed hard, tipped her chin back. 

     “You didn’t count on the Doctor,” she whispered. “That’s the one thing.”

     He chuckled and ran the backs of his fingers along the side of her neck. Clara shivered in disgust. “I think you overestimate his control over this situation. And rest assured, he has no say in what happens in _this_ room. So I suggest you start talking before I resort to methods that you, at least, may find extremely unpleasant…”

     He grabbed her by her arms and spun her away from the wall, flinging her towards the bunk so violently that she almost lost her balance. Clara threw out her arms and gripped the edge of the desk with one hand, planted the other against the wall—and that’s when she saw it. 

     The sunglasses…tossed like an unwanted, unimportant piece of trash on the rumpled sheets of the bunk. 

     She glanced at Red Eye. He stormed towards her; he’d be here in half a second. She cried out through gritted teeth and lunged for the glasses. Her fingers closed around them—she swung her arm around—and pointed the folded glasses straight at his chest. 

     Red Eye stopped, raised an eyebrow, let out a harsh laugh. 

     “Really? A pair of _sunglasses?_ Oh come now, Mrs. Smith. Even in the 29th century a pair of eye protectors aren’t much more than flimsy bits of plastic.”

     “Well, like I said,” Clara hissed, “you didn’t count on the Doctor.”

     She pressed her index finger into the rim of the glasses and a heavy thrum of sonic energy vibrated across the short distance between her and the pirate. Red Eye froze as his body gave a painful jerk. Fury and confusion flooded his eyes; he tried to step forward, but Clara increased the pressure of her finger and he convulsed. His cyborg eye flashed. A spark flew out of the artificial eyeball, then another. The arm on the same side of his body flailed; the corresponding leg gave way and he crumpled to the floor. 

     And Clara didn’t lower her arm until he lay completely still. 

* * *

Down in the hold, the two pirates left to guard (or rather _torment_ ) the prisoners paced the floorboards, leering at the Miss Harrisons, mocking the trapped crew, and occasionally kicking the semi-conscious Applewhite. The Doctor, tied by himself and resting his back against the mast, followed them with his eyes—but they couldn’t see his hands hard at work. 

     The crusty old boatswain tied up nearby glanced in his direction and raised an eyebrow. The Doctor raised one in reply. The boatswain discreetly nudged the seaman tied to him; when the younger man frowned, the boatswain gestured just as discreetly in the Doctor’s direction. 

     Comprehension flooded the younger seaman’s face. Within minutes, the information rippled among the prisoners with anybody ever saying a word. Nor would anyone know from the cold, stony look on the Doctor’s face that the ropes had rubbed his wrists raw.

     _Hang on, Clara. I’m coming. Just a few…minutes…more…_

The ropes loosened. The Doctor froze. The boatswain raised both eyebrows this time, cleared his throat, and yanked at the ropes that held him and the seaman together. The seaman yelped.

     “Oi!” he cried, shooting the Doctor a quick look before pulling a ferocious scowl. “What are you doin’, jerkin’ me around like a puppet?”

     “Shut your mouth, Finnegan, or I’ll shut it for you,” the boatswain snapped. “I’m just tryin’ to get comfortable.”

     “Comfortable, my eye—you been up on your high horse ever since you got promoted—”

     “All right, that’s enough!” the pirate-cook bellowed, storming towards the two “fighting” men —and the Doctor stretched his arms wide and leaped to his feet. Emily Harrison thrust one short leg forward. The pirate-cook tripped over her foot and the Doctor snatched both his saber and his pistol out of his belt before the man could so much as roll over.

     “Nobody move!” he bellowed, pointing the pistol at the cook and the saber-point at the other guard. “No mimes, no selfies, no dabbing, no peace signs, or I swear I’ll fire a single bullet into those barrels of gunpowder and blow us all to kingdom come!”

     The two men actually obeyed. The cook had murder in his eyes, of course, but the other guard looked terrified. The Doctor flexed his fingers around the hilt of the saber and glared at him. 

     “You. Untie Admiral Cole and his wife.”

     The guard gulped, tried to look brave. “Why should I?”

     “Because I’m feeling particularly cantankerous tonight, and you really do not want to try my patience when Mrs. Smith isn’t around to curb my temper.” The Doctor cocked the pistol; the sound echoed and he heard several soft, frightened gasps. “ _Move!_ ”

     The guard jumped and hurried towards the Coles. The cook gritted his teeth. 

     “You will never take this ship back,” he hissed. “A third of the crew, an old man and his wife, two simpering females, and yourself against Red Eye and _his_ crew? You won’t even get to the top deck before we cut you down.”

     “Maybe not, but I reckon we’d all rather die trying.” The Doctor turned to Admiral Cole, who seized the guard’s arm in one enormous hand and yanked his weapon free with the other. “We’ll 

tie them up—arms and legs, tight enough so they can’t use any of their cyborg attachments—” 

     “Their _what_?” Admiral Cole whispered. 

     “Their mechanical bits. I’ll take care of that—don’t worry about it. Anyway, then we’ll cut the rest of our crew loose and take the pirates upstairs by surprise. Hopefully Clara’s gotten free and hasn’t been idle.”

     “And if she…” Admiral Cole swallowed hard. “If she _hasn’t_ gotten free?”

     The Doctor hesitated, pressed his lips together, glanced at Lady Cole. When she looked back at him he was pretty sure he saw a flicker of sympathy in her steel-grey eyes. 

     _Almost there, Clara._

     “Stay in the hold,” he said quietly. “We’ll come for you when the ship is ours again.”

* * *

Clara tiptoed closer to Red Eye and bent close to him. His eyes were closed, his chest unmoving. She reached out, pressed two fingers to his neck. He had a faint pulse. She jerked her hand back and put the sunglasses on. Immediately the interface flickered in the inner lenses and she saw it all: stats on the _Mary Carolina_ , the half-cyborg-half-human on the floor in front of her, the location of the TARDIS in the atmosphere…the Doctor’s life signs, pulsating three decks down…and the life signs of the pirate crew scattered all around her. 

     _Get to the Doctor. Just get him his sunglasses and help him stop the pirates from getting their hands on that stone._

Clara sidestepped Red Eye, pausing only to draw his sword out of its curved scabbard and slip his heavy pistol out of its holster. The sunglasses registered a pirate loitering around a few feet away from the door. She swallowed hard, closed her eyes for just a moment, and opened the door with her sword-hand. 

     As soon as the pirate in the passage turned and saw her, his eyes widened. He fumbled for his gun but Clara jumped forward and pressed the sword-point to the hollow of his collarbone. He froze, slowly raised his hands. 

     “Get in the cabin,” Clara hissed. “Your captain’s sick—maybe dying. If you want to get back to your own time, I’d suggest you go in there and see if you can keep him ali—”

     A sudden roar of furious voices below cut her off and took her by surprise. The pirate’s eyes flashed: he leaped back, snatched his sword out of his belt, and slashed at her. Clara gasped, raised her arm. The swords scraped together. The weight of the impact startled her—but not as much as a telltale red flicker in the corner of his eye.

     “I believe you’re in a bit over your head, sweetheart,” the man leered, shoving her backwards.  Clara’s temper flared: she set her teeth and swung her sword free with a cry. He parried, thrust, and hacked—but somehow she blocked each and every move, driving him several steps back…and somehow she remembered doing this. How could she? She’d never had fencing lessons and this certainly wasn’t tae kwon do…

     _An echo. It’s one of your echoes. Draw on the memory, Clara—grab as much of it as you can!_

Clara slashed at his abdomen; he jumped back and groped for his pistol again—but she nicked his hand and he yelped. The voices downstairs got louder. Clara heard men screaming and cursing. A volley of gunfire made her ears ring. 

     “ _Clara!_ ”

     There was no mistaking that voice, even above the tumult. Clara almost smiled and thrust her weapon forward as hard as she could—and its point slid straight through the man’s arm, pinning him to the wall. He screamed, his mechanical fingers twitching open, his sword clattering to the ground. Clara yanked her sword free as soon as sparks started flying out of his arm. He dropped to his knees, cradling the ruined limb.

     “Give me your pistol!” she shouted, pointing both blades at his throat. “ _Now!_ ”

     He managed to obey with his one bleeding (and therefore human) hand. She jammed both his pistol and Red Eye’s into her waistband, backed away with a sword in each hand, and ran as fast as she could down the steps to the next deck where pirates, crew, Admiral Cole, and the Doctor tangled and fought in such cramped quarters that it took her a moment to figure out who had the upper hand. The Doctor saw her at the foot of the staircase; a fierce smile flashed across his face for just a second before his blue eyes widened.

     “Clara, watch out!” he shouted.

     She whirled. Pirates poured down the steps straight towards her with their swords at the ready. Clara parried the first blow, sliced with the other sword, drove them backwards. They wouldn’t get past her, _wouldn’t_ get down into the fray… _and if they ever do it’ll be over my dead body—come on Clara you can do this—you can fend off pirates even if you’ve never fought a battle with a sword before—of course you can—you’re the Impossible Girl—_

“Clara!” the Doctor cried. “Setting 103!”

     “ _What?!_ ” she screamed. 

     “Setting One—Oh—THREE!”

     Clara set her teeth and focused on the number. The sunglasses responded immediately to the telepathic command.

     _BOOM!_

Last year the Doctor had made his stand in the Bristol Underground, aimed his screwdriver at a cluster of two-dimensional monsters, and thrown them back into their own world with a blast of sonic energy. As soon as the sunglasses activated, the exact same thing happened, albeit without the interdimensional effect. The pirates flew backward, along with the entire staircase. Clara screamed and ducked her head as splinters and chunks of wood sprayed everywhere. 

     “Give it to me!” the Doctor shouted. She whirled just as he reached her side and snatched the sunglasses of her face; he didn’t even bother to put them on and simply aimed. The crew of the _Mary Carolina_ and Admiral Cole immediately winced at the sudden hum and whine of energy, but the pirates screamed, covered their ears, and dropped to their knees, their arms and legs jerking just like Red Eye’s had upstairs. 

     And then…silence. Well, mostly: she heard a few coughs and groans and gasps, but compared to the chaos of a few moments ago you could almost hear a pin drop. The Doctor grabbed her by her shoulders.

     “Are you all right?” he demanded. 

     Clara swallowed, nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so…”

     “Did he hurt you?”

     “ _No_. No, I’m okay—but only because I did _that_ to him. He’s still upstairs. I think he’s alive but…I’m not sure.”

     “Well, _they’ll_ live,” the Doctor grumbled, “so unless you gave him the double dose then he probably will too. Which is more than he deserves.”

     “All of these pirates, then,” Admiral Cole said, staggering up to them, “are not even human?”

     “They’re mostly human—just augmented—which is more than an 18th-century man can or should wrap his mind around.” The Doctor jerked his head towards the hold. “Go back downstairs and bring your wife and nieces up, Admiral. The coast is clear, as they say.”

     But before Admiral Cole could take a step, an awful scream rose up from the hold. The Miss Harrisons scrambled into the room with Lady Cole on their heels as she half-carried, half-dragged Captain Applewhite along with her. 

     “The pirates!” the elder Miss Harrison shrieked. “They got free—I don’t know how—and—and they’re going to blow up the gunpowder!”

     “Quick, to the hold!” Admiral Cole roared. 

     “No, _stop_!” the Doctor cried. “You’ve got two half-cyborgs down there with a death wish—and believe me, they’re capable of anything now that their whole façade’s fallen apart! They won’t hesitate to use any and all abilities they have left. You could send this entire crew down there and they could blow us all to pieces before we ever got to the bottom step!” 

     “Then what do we do?” Lady Cole snapped. 

     The Doctor hesitated, then turned to Clara. She stared up at him, and the stern, commanding look in his eyes made her heart pound with dread. He took her hand and pressed the sunglasses into her palm…and as he did, she remembered. 

     She had dreamed about this just a few hours ago. 

     “Call the TARDIS,” he said. “I’ll buy some time—enough for her to get here and for you to get everybody on board and safely away.” 

     “No,” she whispered. “No no no, you _promised_ me—you told me you’d never send me away ever again!”

     “Clara, listen to me. As soon as you get in the TARDIS have her lock onto my life signs, and then teleport me out of there as soon as you’ve got everybody inside her. That’s all. Piece of cake.” 

     “ _No!_ You’re sending _me_ out of danger and you’re walking into it yourself—alone! If anything happens to you before I’m ready—!”

     “If anything happens to me before you’re ready it’ll mean that we _all_ go up in smoke, Clara.”

     Clara pressed her lips together, suddenly aware of everyone watching them and of the futility of arguing with _him_. She swallowed hard, tightened her fingers around the sunglasses. 

     “Okay,” she whispered shakily. “Okay.”

     He smiled. For a moment she thought (and hoped) he’d kiss her, but he didn’t. A kiss might feel too final, and besides, he’d never do that in front of all these people. He simply gave her hand a little squeeze, turned to the admiral, and pointed a finger at him. 

     “Do as Clara says,” the Doctor said firmly. Then he was gone, shouldering through the crew and passengers and running down into the hold. 

* * *

The cyborgs wouldn’t be wasting time down there among the gunpowder unless they _wanted_ one last audience. The Doctor knew that—just as he knew they’d make the most of even this pyrrhic victory. The cook had obviously been high up in Red Eye’s ranks, and as for the other guard…well, the Doctor hadn’t exactly handled _his_ ego with care.

     He was walking into hot water. No doubt about that. 

     “Hold on hold on hold on a minute—wait up!” he shouted, clambering down the steps into the darkness of the hold. Sure enough he could see the two men standing near the gunpowder, bending over the barrels as if they were looking for something: an identifiable marking, no doubt. The cook lifted his head at the Doctor’s voice and whirled, aiming one arm at him.

     Even in the semi-darkness the Doctor could see the gleam of a cyborg appendage, most likely weaponized. He paused at the bottom of the steps.

     “Not a step closer!” the man shouted. “Like you said: one bullet, and this whole ship goes up. And unlike you, I won’t hesitate.”

     “Oh, what makes you think I would’ve hesitated if you hadn’t been so compliant?” the Doctor retorted. “No no no, _you_ just did as you were told. I had no reason to make good on my threat. You, on the other hand…if you carry out yours, you’ll lose everything. Your lives, your fortune—and perhaps most importantly, the Draveen. It’d be a shame if, after all these hundreds of years, it just splintered into nothing.”

     The cook laughed. “Ah, but that won’t happen. The two of us will find it—and then we’ll just transport away to the _Hour Glass_ while you stand there on those steps like an idiot, caught between _my_ threat and our victory.”

     “And what about your captain? He’s still alive, you know. What will he do when he finds out that his second-in-command and one of his peons made off with the Draveen? You don’t think he’ll comb the ends of the universe for you in revenge? And you don’t think the crew you’ve left aboard the _Hour Glass_ will turn on you once they find out the truth?”

     The man blinked. The Doctor smiled as much in rueful satisfaction as in relief: overhead he could hear the whoosh and thud of a materializing TARDIS. 

     “So,” he went on, spreading his palms and raising his voice, “perhaps _you’re_ the one caught between your own threat and victory. Because if you want to live in peace in your own time and space, your life extended indefinitely by the Stone of Life, you’ll have to make sure you kill Red Eye once and for all. And you won’t be able to get to him without goin’ through me, right here, on _this_ staircase—unless you blow up the gunpowder. And unless your transporters are as fine-tuned as mine are, you won’t be makin’ it out of here alive if you do _that_.” 

     The younger guard whirled, his face contorted. “I’ll make it easy on all of us, then. I’ll just go through you!”

     He lunged for the staircase—and the Doctor snatched a hidden pirate’s pistol out from underneath his coat and aimed it at him. The guard stopped short. 

     “Were you so sure it’d be that easy?” the Doctor murmured. The guard gulped…and drew a sharp breath as the Doctor turned his arm and aimed at the gunpowder. The cook tightened his hand around his own weapon; his arm shook. 

     “Come back and finish the search,” he ordered the guard. 

     “Take one step, young man, and I’ll fire,” the Doctor countered. 

     “You’re _insane!_ ” the cook roared. “What’s in this for you?!”

     “A guarantee that the Draveen won’t fall into the hands of villains who’d set themselves up as immortal, time-traveling pirate-kings, raping and murdering and pillaging whole civilizations to shreds!” the Doctor roared back. “I’d rather blow myself up than stand back and watch that happen, so _choose!_ Leave it be and go back to your own time, or blow it up and all of us with it!”

     The TARDIS whooshed once more overhead: Clara and the crew were up and away. The Doctor held his breath, firmed his fingertip on the trigger. The cook clenched his jaw, his face twisting in agonized indecision. 

     And then a slow, pained voice croaked from the top of the stairs. 

     “You would _dare_ leave me behind…and make off with the treasure?”

     The Doctor jerked his head up and the guard gasped. Red Eye stood at the top of the steps, his artificial eye clouded and blank, one arm hanging limp, one leg dragging behind him. There was no missing the fury in that other eye, though, or the way his human hand clenched. He staggered down one step and then another as fast as he could, desperate for a glimpse of the cook. 

     “When the _Hour Glass_ arrives I’ll make you wish you’d never been born,” Red Eye snarled, “you ungrateful, black-hearted son of a—”

     The Doctor saw the panic in the cook’s eyes and knew, without a doubt, that the game was up. Decision made, no hesitation involved. The would-be thief knew there were worse things in life than going up in flames, and he had no intention of facing them. 

     The cook pulled the trigger. The gunpowder erupted in a blast of heat and smoke, muting the guard’s scream and Red Eye’s final, desperate roar…and the groan of the TARDIS as it snatched the Doctor away. 

* * *

As soon as the Doctor solidified in front of the TARDIS doors Clara pulled in a choked gasp and lifted her skirts, racing to him and away from the console. He had his back to her and when she put herself between him and the doors she could see an odd look on his rather sooty face. 

     “Are you okay?” she asked, breathlessly. 

     He blinked, looked down at her, raised an eyebrow. “That was close. I feel a bit singed.”

     Clara laughed weakly and threw her arms around his neck. He wobbled a bit—and oh yes, she could definitely smell the gunpowder and maybe even a bit of burnt hair and wool—but he was here, he was alive, he was hugging her back and burying his face in her hair and everything was gonna be okay now that she and the TARDIS had brought him home safe…

“Ahem.”

     The rough noise behind them startled the Doctor: he grabbed Clara’s arms, pushed her down, and whirled. The real crew of the _Mary Carolina_ huddled on the other side of the console room, along with Captain Applewhite, the Coles, and the Miss Harrisons. Clara could’ve sworn the Doctor turned pink. She smirked and gently grabbed hold of his two little fingers as a weary but smiling Admiral Cole stepped forward and extended a hand. 

     “Well, Doctor,” he said, “we may be without the _Mary Carolina_ —but we’re alive. And I suppose that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

     “That, and the fact that an extremely dangerous artifact is no longer in existence,” the Doctor replied, taking the proffered hand. 

     “How…” Captain Applewhite began hoarsely. His bruised face made talking difficult; Clara made a note to bring out the first aid kit as soon as this conversation was over. “How am I to explain this to the ship owners in Kingston?”

     “You tell them, simply, that another ship came to rescue you,” the Doctor said, a wry twinkle creeping into his eye. “And that the pirates blew themselves up arguing over who’d get the treasure. It’s one of the oldest stories in the universe, after all: the bad guys always turn on each other when the going gets tough.”

     “But what about the _Hour Glass_?” Lady Cole asked. “Isn’t it hiding in a cove somewhere?”

     “Oh, I spotted it on the screen,” Clara said. “It’s about two miles south of this spot.”

     The Doctor raised an eyebrow and strode to the console, taking her with him. He grabbed the screen with his free hand, studied the display, and smirked. 

     “Look at that. That’s no ordinary pirate-ship. It’s probably outfitted with all manner of futuristic tech—and the crew left aboard just realized that all their comrades’ life signs blinked out. They’re leavin’ Planet Earth—watch.”

     Clara and several of their guests leaned close. Sure enough, the blinking dot that represented the _Hour Glass_ faded away. The Doctor pressed a few buttons and grinned. 

     “Yep. Scurryin’ away—like rats on a sinking ship!”

     “Yeah, probably not the most sensitive turn of phrase at the moment,” Clara murmured. 

     The Doctor blinked. In spite of his swollen face, Captain Applewhite chuckled.

     “That remark will be forgiven,” he mumbled through a broken lip, “if you deliver us safely back to Kingston.”

     The Doctor gave him a sharp nod and reached for a lever. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

* * *

“So the Stone’s really gone, then?” 

     They were back in the Time Vortex, their passengers safely dropped off on a Jamaican beach where they could easily walk back to Kingston. Standing at the console, the Doctor felt the last of his strained nerves relax as the Impossible Girl appeared in the corner of his eye, all clean with her damp hair hanging loose just above her shoulders and her small self back in her own clothes. 

     “Are you sorry?” he asked, pulling a lever.

     “Sorry about what?”

     “That it’s gone.”

     Clara frowned. “Are you?”

     “Not in the slightest. Can you imagine what would happen if something that powerful fell into the hands of scoundrels like _that_ lot? Or worse…a Hitler-type? No no, that thing’s better off vaporized.”

     She nodded thoughtfully. “What about the people who left it there? The Morvales?”

     “Well, obviously they thought it was dangerous, too. Otherwise they wouldn’t have hidden it from whoever was drivin’ them out of their own universe.”

     Clara said nothing. The Doctor glanced at her, saw her running her finger along the edge of a keyboard, and frowned. 

     “Are you really all right?” he asked, sharper than he intended.

     She looked up, puzzled. “Yeah, of course.”

     “You’re sure?”

     “Quite sure.” A tiny smile tugged the corner of her mouth. “And if this is about me and Red Eye, trust me. I didn’t give him a chance to hurt me.”

     He tried not to let his relief show as he typed in new coordinates. “Heaven help the man who underestimates you, Clara Oswald.”

     She smiled. The next thing he knew she snuggled close to him, winding her arms tight around his middle. He gladly wrapped an arm around her and piloted the TARDIS with his free hand, watching the lights shimmer and blink overhead. 

     “The weirdest thing happened, though,” she murmured. “All of a sudden I _knew_ how to fight with a sword. It felt just like that time right after you pulled me out of the WiFi. I _knew_ all that computer stuff without ever havin’ studied a thing about it.”

     The Doctor rubbed her shoulder with his thumb. “Theories?”

     “One of my echoes knew how to sword-fight.” She paused, fingered the zipper on his hoodie. “Maybe that was how she saved you.”

     “Maybe. Who knows? Maybe she was Joan of Arc and saved me from the bloody English that time I stumbled onto a battlefield during the Hundred Years’ War.”

     She snorted. “Doctor…”

     “Or better yet, maybe she was Boadicea!” 

     “Shut up,” Clara laughed, pushing herself away from him and swatting his shoulder. The Doctor grinned and pretended to flinch, grabbing her wrist before she could swat him again; she immediately flashed him a brilliant smile and laced her fingers with his. 

     “Where are we off to next?” she asked eagerly. 

     “Oh, I think you’ve had enough adventure for a day or two, Miss Oswald.”

     Clara tossed her head. “That’s ‘ _Mrs. Smith_ ’ to you, thank you very much!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's *my* version of how Clara once fought with a sword in an actual battle--as referenced in "The Girl Who Died." Whew, that was a bit more difficult to write than I expected, but it was fun! 
> 
> By the by, I have a Pinterest board for this story if anyone's interested! https://www.pinterest.com/silverlady1701A/wip-this-life-we-choose/


	8. The Invisible Man (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Empress of the shape-shifting Vaborians blackmails the Doctor and Clara into hunting down five of her planet's longtime but invisible enemies...and the search takes them straight to a reunion with Merry Galel.

_“There's no trust. No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured,_

_All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.”_

_—William Shakespeare,_ Romeo and Juliet

* * *

 

_Vaboria, one of the seven planets of the Akhaten Star System_

Five tall, slender, blue-skinned men in gold-tinted armor prodded the Doctor towards the arched doorway at the other end of the stuffy, windowless corridor. Sunlight and fresher (but not much cooler) air wafted through the opening, but still he dragged his feet as much as he dared, forcing the guards to push and pull him along. 

     “One of these days,” he growled, jerking his shoulders to one side and then the other “I’ll get from Point A to Point B of a simple, _idiotically_ innocent errand without gettin’ sidetracked, thrown off course, dragged into heists I never asked for, unintentionally ruinin’ a date, _or gettin’ myself arrested!_ ”

“Silence, prisoner!” one of the guards hissed. “You shall not speak again until the Most Noble addresses you _first_ , do you understand me?”

     The Doctor scowled, but he set his teeth and fixed his stormy eyes straight ahead. No point in arguing anymore: _that_ was obvious at this point. He’d argued and protested all the way from the marketplace where they’d first surrounded him, and so far it hadn’t worked a bit. 

     _Definition of insanity: trying the same thing over and over again expectin’ different results. Of course I’ve never been accused of_ sanity _, so perhaps I should just keep it up. Gotta maintain my reputation._

As they emerged into an enormous, airy chamber full of windows, however, he blinked—first as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light, and second as he realized who already occupied the room. She rose from her throne with calm but quick dignity, folding her blue hands beneath the folds of her shimmering yellow gown. The guards stopped short in salute. 

     _Oh_. Empress Kav’lahri of the Vaborian shape-shifters…an old acquaintance _and_ a personified lie detector. The Doctor narrowed his eyes as she met his gaze; she raised an eyebrow in response.

     “O Revere’d, Mighty, and Most Noble Empress!” the lead guard boomed. “We bring before you the being known through the universe as ‘the Doctor’…as you so ordered.”

     “Oh, is _that_ why you picked me up?” the Doctor demanded. “Because if you’d’ve at least told me your queen wanted a little chat I might’ve been more obliging!”

     The guard whipped around. “You are not a Vaborian citizen, and therefore you are not guaranteed the right to—”

     “Captain, that is quite enough,” the Empress intoned. 

     “Your wish is my command, O Revere’d, Mighty, and Most No—”

     The Empress raised a hand. The Captain shut up and she made her way down the steps of the dais. The Doctor squared his shoulders as best as he could, given the fact that two of the guards still gripped his arms. 

     “You are considerably less…how shall we say it… _dapper_ these days, Doctor,” remarked the Empress. “In fact, I would say you are looking rather unkempt.”

     The Doctor smirked. “How d’you like the new face?”

     “I was, in fact, referring to the new face.” 

     “And here I thought you were talkin’ about my new fashion sense. Most former acquaintances I run into tend to comment on the ‘edgy vibe,’ somewhere between ‘punk rocker’ and ‘absent-minded professor’—”

     “I can also see that you still have a penchant for speaking when you have absolutely nothing to say. Perhaps one day regeneration will grant you a tamer tongue.”

     “Ah, I wouldn’t count on it.”

     The Empress drew even closer, her robes tinkling softly as she moved. The Doctor stood very still, never breaking eye contact. 

     “Why are you here?” she whispered when her face was five inches from his. 

     “Wouldn’t you love to know,” he whispered back. 

     “I would. And you know that I have ways of making men talk—even you. I can sense a lie the moment it is breathed, and I never take a lie for an answer.”

     “Shame you haven’t joined the Sisterhood of Karn. They’d love to have you on the staff, it’d save them loads of time when they have to deal with _me_.”

     The Empress drew back. “When was the last time you were in contact with a Dobri?”

     The Doctor frowned, surprised by the question. “I have no idea. And it’d be pretty difficult for me to answer that anyway, seein’ as how they’re invisible to the average naked eye. Only the finest bio-sensors in the universe can pick up their four hearts and two brains. Why do you ask?”

     “Do you know how dangerous it would be if they figured out how to override the barriers surrounding their interdimensional colony?”

     The Doctor snorted. “ ‘Interdimensional colony?’ Is that what you lot call it these days? Good grief, you’re as bad the humans. ‘Reservations,’ ‘internment camps,’ ‘interdimensional colonies’ —just nice, sterilized terms for what always amounts to race-based prisons.”

     The Empress spun on her heel and glided back towards her throne. “Pity them all you like, but the Dobri are one of the most war-like species within this star system. Once upon a time they terrorized this planet—and of course, it is nearly impossible to fight an invisible enemy.”

     “Perhaps you wouldn’t have had to fight them if you’d treated them as the original inhabitants worthy of respect,” the Doctor retorted. 

    “Perhaps,” she muttered, glaring at him as she sat down. “But my ancestors made those decisions, _not_ me. _I_ can only answer for how I protect my people…and our neighbors. Which is why I’ve summoned you into my presence.”

     The Doctor narrowed his eyes. “You seem to have it all under control. Why do you need me?”

     “Because you are a disinterested, neutral third party.” The Empress leaned back in her throne. “There has been a breach in the colony barrier.”

     “The barbed-wire fence, you mean?”

     “If you wish to call it that.” She shifted uncomfortably. “Five Dobri hijacked one of our patrol shuttles yesterday afternoon—young ones, three males and two females, according to the bioelectric signatures. Our scouts followed them as far as Akhate’s atmosphere. We assume they landed on that planet.”

     “Why didn’t you just follow them?”

     The Empress looked even more uneasy. “Akhate and Vaboria are not on the… _friendliest_ of terms these days. Queen Merry has insisted that we share our trade route to Panbabylonia, now that the one between Akhate and that planet has deteriorated into an asteroid field. We have refused, and it has caused some tension.”

     The Doctor almost laughed. “So you want me to go to Akhate and tell Queen Merry that five Dobri are on her planet, because _you_ don’t want to be the one to break the frosty silence.” 

     “I do not wish to offend Queen Merry,” Kav’lahri snapped. “She will assume—like the child she still is—that I have ulterior motives in sending any of my men down to her planet! Especially now, when the whole planet is absorbed in the Festival of Lights. And besides…” She looked away abruptly and brought a slender blue hand to her lips. “My son…he died a year ago on Akhate, while attempting to negotiate a peace between us. A freak accident, they say. I have no wish to send anymore of my people to that godforsaken place.”

     The Doctor nodded slowly. “Mm-hmm. All right, then. I’ll make a deal with you.”

     The captain of the guard bristled. “Her Revere’d, Mighty, and Most Noble Empress does not treat with the likes of—”

     “Captain, _enough_ ,” the Empress snapped. “What bargain do you propose, Doctor?”

     “I’ll go to Akhate and talk with Queen Merry. To be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t mind seein’ her again—it’s been a long time. How many years now by your reckoning since the Old God gorged himself on an infinity of potential?”

     The Empress frowned. “Umm…seven?”

     “Seven years.” The Doctor nearly smiled at memories of Merry Galel’s sweet voice echoing through the Pyramid of Akhaten, and of Clara rushing in with her crinkled brown leaf—but he quickly straightened his face and looked sternly at Kav’lahri. “Not only will I talk to Merry, but I’ll see what I can do about tracking the Dobri down. I may not approve of your methods—”

     “My _ancestors_ ’ methods.”

     “—but I don’t like the idea of them wreakin’ havoc on Akhaten, either.”

     The Empress sighed. “Very well…”

     “And in exchange for my assistance,” the Doctor added quickly, firmly, “you’ll give _me_ what I came here for—free of charge. Those are my terms. Take ‘em or leave ‘em.”

     Her expression turned confused. “Oh. Oh yes. What _did_ you come here for?”

     “Two Varborian steak and red cheese sandwiches.”

     The Empress’s eyebrows shot up almost to her hairline. “You _cannot_ be serious.”

     “On the contrary, I’ve never been more serious since I’ve been in this room.”

     She stared at him in utter disbelief for a long, silent moment and for a moment he wondered if she was going to storm off in an offended rage. Instead she gave a soft, wry laugh and shook her head. 

     “I would not have taken you for a man who succumbs to such crude cravings,” she chuckled.

     “Ah, but I don’t. I’m actin’ in service to a very great Queen who demands at least one of those sandwiches and will probably steal at least half of the other from _me_.”

     The Empress peered at him, her gaze no longer mistrustful, her mouth curving in a half-smile. “Well, you have not lied once to me since you entered this room, Doctor—and you do not lie now. You may have your reward in exchange for your service to me…so long as you also agree to a time constraint.”

     “I’m a Time Lord. I don’t need schedules.”

     “Which translates to ‘I’m a Time Lord—I’ll do it when it pleases me.’ ” The Empress tipped her head back. “I’m no fool, Doctor…and I think you’ll find that I am one step ahead of you.”

 

* * *

 

Clara Oswald wasn’t sure whether she was having a terrible day or just a really chaotic one that, in retrospect, would one day seem like a good one. She’d been up since five, at the wedding venue since nine, trying to corral her cousin James’s kids since ten, escaped for all of half an hour to shimmy into her maid-of-honor dress and put her makeup on—and then had spent the last two hours corraling the aforementioned kids some more. 

Now she sighed and gripped her bouquet a little tighter as Linda, self-proclaimed wedding co-ordinator, pushed and prodded her and six other bridesmaids into position inside a narrow hallway. Just behind her the bride—her favorite cousin Beth—fidgeted and smiled nervously; on either side of Clara, the two flower girls—James’s twin four-year-olds, Caroline and Cassie—giggled and nudged each other. When they looked up at Clara she smiled and stroked their brushed, curled hair in silent reassurance. They might be troublesome, but she loved ‘em to bits. 

     And then her stomach growled. Caroline and Cassie’s eyes widened and they burst into giggles. Clara flushed. 

     _Thanks a lot, Doctor. Sent you on a lunch run two hours ago and I’m_ still _starving._

“Clara?” Linda hissed, squeezing in. “These two will walk in on either side of you, remember?”

     “Yes, Linda.”

     “And you’ll keep them next to you on the stage? Oh for Heaven’s sake, don’t let them run off. Whatever you do, _don’t let them run off_.” 

     “Yes, Linda.”

     Her stepmother exhaled and tucked a loose strand of dark hair back into Clara’s flower crown. “I really don’t know why Beth insisted on these flimsy hairpieces, they’ve been more trouble than they’re wor—” 

     “ _Clara!_ ” 

     Bride, father-of-the-bride, bridesmaids, flower girls, wedding coordinator, and maid of honor whirled at the half-shouted, half-gasping cry behind them. Clara’s mouth dropped open as the Doctor scrambled through the tight space, apologizing breathlessly every time he jostled someone. 

     “Clara,” he whispered once he was right in front of her. “Clara, I need you.”

     “For _what?!_ ” Linda cried. 

     “Why aren’t you in your suit?!” Clara demanded.

     The Doctor blinked, glanced down at his dusty hoodie, jumper, and trousers. Clara didn’t wait for an explanation. She grabbed his sleeve, dragging him all the way past the bewildered procession to the end of the corridor over Linda’s panicked protests. Only after she’d all but shoved him into a side room and slammed the door behind them did she trust herself to speak without screaming. 

     “What do you think you’re doing?!” she hissed. “You were supposed to bring me a bite to eat two hours ago! Where have you been—and why aren’t you wearing your suit?!”

     “Well, I went for lunch—I really did—just not on Earth—but I got arrested—”

     “ _Arrested?!_ ”

     “More of a manipulative move on the Empress of Vaboria’s part. I didn’t actually commit any crimes—she just wanted to guarantee a meeting. There’s an emergency—invisible humanoids who’re rebelling against their species’ internment—probably landed on Akhate and _possibly_ planning to get the star system’s attention by creatin’ a crisis during the Festival of Lights. It’s like the Festival of Offerings, but a bit more light-hearted—no pun intended.”

     “Doctor, can’t this wait till _after_ the ceremony?” 

     “Ahh…no, not really.”

     “Why not?”

     “Because the Vaborians put a timed spacial destabilizer on the back of the TARDIS, obviously tryin’ to force me to carry out my end of the agreement and do it fast. If it goes off, the external dimensions will go all to hell. You think she’s a decent size now? Watch what happens when this thing goes off. It’ll be like what you saw on Trenzalore.”

     Clara’s stomach flopped. “But…but surely you can disconnect it.”

     “I can’t! I tried. It’ll respond only to _her_ voice command when I’ve completed the mission.”

     “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me…”

     The Doctor raked both hands through his hair until his curls stood up on end more than ever. “Do you think I would kid about somethin’ like this, Clara?!”

     “Since when do you compromise the TARDIS’ security like that?!”

     “Since _never_ , but what could I do when I had five Vaborian guards ready to rip my throat out if I looked at ‘em cross?! She was on the other side of town!”

     “Stop shouting at me!”

     “Stop shouting at you?! _You’re_ shouting at me!” 

     “Clara!” Linda cried, banging on the door. “Clara, stop fighting with that crazy man and get out here!” 

     Clara and the Doctor stared at the door, then at each other. Her face felt hot and her nails dug deep into her palms and she found herself breathing hard in her fury. The Doctor didn’t look much better. He loomed over her in stormy Scottish wrath, all eyebrows and flashing blue eyes and looking a bit red in the face himself. 

     They hadn’t fought like this in a long time. 

     “How long’s the countdown?” she finally managed to whisper. 

     He swallowed, relaxed a little. “Twelve hours.”

     “Okay,” she murmured. “Can I please just get to the end of this ceremony? I’ll come find you as soon as it’s over, I promise.”

     “What about pictures?” he grumbled. “People always want pictures of the wedding party.”

     “Okay, fine, as soon as the pictures are over. We can solve this in eleven hours, can’t we?”

     The Doctor clicked his tongue and glanced to the side. “We’ll only have ten by the time you lot are finished with the photographers.”

     “I won’t need to be in every photo. And besides, if I tell Beth I need to go she’ll understand.”

     He nodded, shoved his hands into his pockets, and jerked his steely gaze to one side—and she almost reconsidered. She remembered that suffering TARDIS looming over Trenzalore. What if something like that happened here, on Earth? What if she was irreparable? What if, like he said, these invisible people caused a disaster on Akhate? She had fond memories of that place, and of little Queen Merry. _What if what if what if what if…_

She closed the distance between them. The Doctor glanced at her, sidelong and sullen, but his hands came out of his pockets and found a home on her waist as she stood on tiptoe and cupped his face in her palms. 

     “I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

     “Yeah,” he muttered hoarsely. “Me too.”

     “We can beat a stupid old countdown. Just watch. Just give me an hour and I’m all yours.”

     His gaze skittered down to her one-shouldered, emerald green dress. A small but undeniably roguish grin tugged one corner of his mouth. “Who’s gonna bother lookin’ at the bride if _you’re_ the maid of honor? Talk about stealin’ the show.”

     _KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK._ “Clara!!!”

     “Better get going,” the Doctor whispered. Clara nodded, still blushing over the not-so-subtle compliment, and snatched a kiss.

     “I’ll be lookin’ for you,” she whispered. “ _In your suit._ ”

     “Yes, Boss,” he said, the one-sided grin deepening. 

 

* * *

 

The ceremony, thankfully, unfolded without a hitch. Clara managed to herd the flower girls into position _and_ keep them in place while the bride and groom exchanged vows—but she held her breath the entire time and kept stealing glances towards the back of the audience. Only when she finally caught sight of the Doctor slipping into the room, dressed in that velvety burgundy coat she liked so much, did she let herself take a deep breath. 

     And then of course there were pictures, and friends and family and acquaintances who hurried up to her to say hello and tell her how much she looked like her mum and ask her what she was up to these days—and still she kept an eye on the Doctor while he hung back, raising those eyebrows at her and tapping his wristwatch.   

     The minute she could slip away, she did—still clutching her bouquet. He fell into step beside her as she half-ran down the aisle. She linked her arm with his and held on tight. 

     “How much time do we have?” she whispered. 

     “Ten hours, forty-five minutes. That was a short wedding.”

     “Not as short as ours.”

     He snorted—and then they were in front of the TARDIS, parked just outside the venue. Clara burst inside, he slammed the door behind him, and together they ran up to the console.

     “Like I showed you last night,” he called. “Set the coordinates first…”

     Clara’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Akhaten Star System…Planet Akhate…”

     “Good. Disengage the gravitational field while I turn on the dematerialization unit…”

     She flipped a switch. The TARDIS began to rumble. 

     “…and you activate the Vortex Link.”

     Clara grabbed the big lever and glanced at him. He raised his eyebrows, nodded reassuringly, and she pulled it forward with all her might. The TARDIS whooshed and groaned, the lights flashed overhead, and the console’s glowing column turned radiant. Clara’s breath caught in delight. The Doctor smiled.

     “Good job, co-pilot,” he said with a wink. “Next stop…Queen Merry Galel’s dominion.”

 

* * *

 

The last time he’d been on this planet he’d looked younger and felt older—and Clara had been a mere _novice_ when it came to time-traveling. The Doctor glanced down at her as two guards ( _much_ friendlier than the ones who’d bullied him on Vaboria) led them through Queen Merry’s splendid palace. Clara wore a determined look on her face, but he’d have to be blind to miss the excitement in her large brown eyes. 

     “Feelin’ a bit of dejà vu yet?” he asked. 

     She looked up at him and grinned. “Oh yeah. At least I did down in the city. Things do seem a little more cleaned-up, put-together, but it’s still got its old Mos Eisley vibe.”

     The Doctor sighed in mock exasperation. “Why does everything have to have a pop culture reference?”

     “Hey now, don’t go knockin’ _Star Wars_. I might not have been as quick to believe you were a time-travelin’ space man if I hadn’t been obsessed with all the _Star-_ shows when I was a kid.” Clara waved at their surroundings. “ _This_ , though? I don’t think I ever imagined Merry lived in a place like _this_.”    

     “I doubt she did when we met her. She may have been Queen of Years, but her performance at the Festival of Offerings would’ve served as a coronation of sorts. She was Queen in name only then. _Now_ , though…”

     His voice trailed off as they entered a colorful but comfortable sitting room. A young woman with long golden hair sat on a divan with her back to them, listening intently as the tall, handsome man with reddish hair perched on a stool in front of her strummed a guitar. One of the guards cleared his throat; the guitarist looked up, the young woman whirled—and the Doctor heard Clara gasp softly. 

     “The Doctor and Clara Oswald, Your Majesty,” the guard announced. 

     The young woman sprang to her feet and the Doctor felt a jolt of surprise himself as she rest-

ed a slender hand atop her very pregnant belly. Clara’s eyes widened to saucer-size and a hopeful smile broke out over her face. 

     “Merry?” she whispered. 

     “Clara?” the young Queen breathed—and the next thing the Doctor knew the two of them had their arms wrapped around each other, laughing and squealing. Which, of course, left him standing awkwardly by himself and exchanging slightly-embarrassed glances with the guitarist. To be fair, the man looked kind and friendly enough, if a little taken aback by the sudden reunion. 

     “Oh, I can’t believe it’s _you!_ ” Merry cried, stepping back just enough to see Clara’s face. “It’s been—”

     “A long time,” Clara said quickly, much to the Doctor’s relief. Seven years for Merry and two years for them would be too hard to explain. “And look at you! All grown up and—and—”

     Merry giggled and stroked her stomach. “Oh, yes. I’m afraid we have an _awful_ lot to catch up on.” She glanced at the Doctor and her smile faltered. “I—I don’t understand—where’s—”

     The Doctor stepped forward, suddenly feeling a bit shy. “Hello, Merry.”

     Merry frowned, glanced at Clara. Clara smiled. 

     “Don’t worry. It’s a thing with his people: he’s changed his face, but he’s still the same man underneath, I promise. Go on…ask him somethin’ only the Doctor would know.”

     Merry looked at him again, unafraid curiosity sparking in her eyes. “What did you tell me in the Pyramid?”

     The Doctor smiled. He’d told her a lot of things, but…

     “ ‘ You are unique in the universe,’ ” he said gently. “ ‘There is only one Merry Galel…and there will never be another.’ ”

     Merry’s mouth fell open. When she darted away from Clara and grabbed his hands the Doctor braced himself for a hug of epic proportions, but she merely beamed up at him with tears of joy in her eyes. 

     “It really is you,” she whispered. “I could see it in your eyes when you said it. You looked like you really meant it—just like you did all those years ago.”

     “Well, of course I meant it,” the Doctor said warmly, feeling himself grin more easily than he normally did with anyone other than Clara. “I don’t throw compliments around like that lightly. And I can see already that I was right on the money. Love the way you’ve obviously modernized the city—did I notice trash receptacles on every street corner or was that just my imagination?”

     Merry giggled. “No, you didn’t imagine it. But I can’t take all the credit for that. I’ve had so many wise counselors…and a very good husband.”

     The Doctor noticed the guitarist gazing at her lovingly. “Ah. So this is the lucky man, then.”

     “Yes,” Merry said, holding out a hand to the young man. “Doctor, Clara…His Royal Highness Prince Colin. Colin, these are the two who saved us all from the Devourer when I was little.”

     Prince Colin flashed a kindly smile and extended a strong hand to the Doctor first, then Clara. “It’s an honor to meet you both at last. And what excellent timing, too! You must’ve received word of the Festival of Lights and the celebrations planned in the city this evening?”

     “You might say we ‘received word,’ ” the Doctor said, grimacing. “We’ve actually come with a warning from one of your close neighbors about a possible threat to the Festival. Troublesome characters love to take advantage of high-traffic events, after all. A planetwide celebration complete with fireworks and every other flammable light-producing instrument in existence? Perfect target.”

     Merry and Colin glanced at each other; she blinked, clasped her hands tightly. “What kind of troublesome characters, Doctor?”

     “Dobri.”

     “ _Dobri_?! But they—”

     “Are being held in a barbarous imprisonment, where conditions are so foul and miserable that it’s a wonder they’ve survived there as a species as long as they have,” Colin finished for her in an indignant growl. 

     The Doctor raised his eyebrows fractionally. “Yes…exactly. Which is why when the Empress of the Vaborians told me that five of them had escaped and gotten through Akhate’s atmosphere, I wasn’t exactly inclined to call fire and brimstone upon their heads. But at the same time we’d all be idiots if we tried to pretend the Dobri aren’t fierce or that they haven’t got a species-wide chip on their shoulder. Besides which, they’re totally invisible to the naked eye. If they really are here then you’ve got a major security problem on your hands.”

     “And the Vaborians sent you to tell us this?” Merry asked softly.

     “More like ‘blackmailed,’ ” Clara chimed in. “The Empress put a timed spacial destabilizer on the TARDIS—that’s our ship—that can only be disconnected at her own voice command. Needless to say, she won’t do that till we report back to her that the Dobri have been caught.”

     Colin turned away, a hand at his forehead. Merry watched him and worried her lower lip between her teeth before turning back to her visitors. “We have some scanner technology, but I don’t know that it’ll be powerful enough to locate a Dobri, let alone five.” 

     “Ah, but the TARDIS does,” the Doctor reassured her. “So if you don’t mind, I’ll get to work on that right away. Meanwhile, if you could have your security sort of people on alert—”

     Colin turned back to them, his face set. “I’m Captain of the Queen’s Guard—I’ll alert the men right away. But let me assure you, Doctor…those Dobri will _not_ be returned to the ‘interdimensional colony,’ as Kav’lahri and her minions are so insistent on calling it. They may be members of a fearsome species but they deserve far more respect than to be locked up like so many cattle.”

     The Doctor glanced at Merry; she lowered her gaze and said nothing. He frowned. “Shouldn’t that be the Queen’s decision, Your Highness?” 

     “It _is_ the Queen’s decision,” Merry whispered, her tone suddenly hard and resolute. “I never wanted any trouble with Kav’lahri…but this situation is part of why our planets haven’t exchanged any communication in a year. She’d like to pretend it’s all about trade routes, but that’s not true. She just doesn’t want to admit it’s about _my_ protests over their treatment of the Dobri.”

     “Or about her son’s death?” Clara murmured. 

     Merry looked sharply at her and swallowed hard. “That, too.”

     “Fine, then—we won’t turn the Dobri over to the Vaborians,” the Doctor interjected. “That, I can and will get behind. But what about my TARDIS? How do we convince Kav’lahri that _you_ have the situation in hand and I’ve at least spoken to you and found the Dobri?”

     “Those were her only terms?” Colin asked. 

     “Her only spoken terms. I didn’t agree verbally to anythin’ else—although I’m sure she thinks she implied that I bring the Dobri back to Vaboria.”

     Colin snorted. “She would. Never fear about your ship, Doctor. I will personally guarantee its safety.”

     “Oh, really? What are you gonna do—a flawless impersonation of Kav’lahri herself?”

     Colin almost smiled. “Not a bad idea, to be honest.” He turned to Merry, reached for her small hands. “I’ll be back in time for the fireworks, sweet girl. Chin up. We’ll keep your planet safe.”

     “I know you will,” Merry whispered. She glanced shyly at the Doctor and Clara. “I don’t suppose I could ask Clara to stay with me? I’d love to catch up, if I could. That is, if you don’t need her to help you track the Dobri.”

     “Oh, I suppose I could spare her for an hour or two,” the Doctor said, smirking at the pleading look on Clara’s face. “Provided she doesn’t go tellin’ stories on me.”

     “Only a few of the mildly-embarrassing ones,” Clara teased right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another two-parter, so look for the second half hopefully by the end of the week or next! I've got an idea for a second original novel right now that I'm pursuing, though, so I really don't know when I'll update again once I finish "The Invisible Man." It'll all depend on my time constraints and my creative energy levels. But once again, thank you so much for all the supportive comments I've received so far! I have appreciated each and every one.


	9. The Invisible Man (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vaborian Empress' voice-activated bomb aboard the TARDIS continues its dangerous countdown, and the search is on for the invisible Dobri...until disaster strikes in the Akhaten amphitheater. (The concluding part of "The Invisible Man.")

_“My only love sprung from my only hate.”_

_—William Shakespeare,_ Romeo and Juliet

* * *

_9 1/2 hours left on the TARDIS countdown_

 

“Security is already fairly rigorous, thanks to the influx of visitors for the Festival,” Prince Colin explained as he and the Doctor hurried out of the palace. “But of course I try not to make it too obvious. Merry insists that that has never been the way on Akhate.”

     “She put you in charge of her security forces after you married, then?” the Doctor asked.

     The prince nodded. “After matters deteriorated between her and the Vaborians, she feared it might be for the best. Merry is not at fault there, Doctor, I swear. The Empress is so bound up in her own national pride, she can’t bear even the gentlest criticism. And when it does come—as it did from my wife—she reacts with such venom that it takes everyone by surprise.”

     “One could’ve argued you did the same thing back there when I brought up the Dobri.”

     A slight flush crept across Colin’s face. “I believe it’s my duty as a sentient being to help any and all victims of injustice. The first Dobri who were forced into that…that _place…_ they certainly weren’t anymore innocent than the Vaborians who put them there. But who can blame their descendants if _they_ demand freedom and the chance to prove themselves as functioning members of the Akhaten system now?”

     “I agree,” the Doctor said crisply. “Good to know we’re on the same page.”

     Colin looked at him askance—but they’d reached the bottom of the steps outside the palace, and a shuttle already sat on the curb waiting for him. “Where’s your ship?”

     “Oh, not far from here—I know exactly where she is. You run along, alert your security forces—but for Heaven’s sakes _don’t_ alarm them or anyone else. The last thing we need is mass panic over invisible rebels wreakin’ havoc during a public celebration.”   

     Colin nodded and walked towards the shuttle. The Doctor watched him, hesitated, called his name. When Colin turned the Doctor narrowed his eyes and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. 

     “How long have you and Merry been married?”

     Colin smiled just a little. “A year. Why?”

     The Doctor shrugged. “Just curious. You think you can disable that bomb on my TARDIS?”

     “I’m almost positive I can. Good luck with the scanning, Doctor.”

     With that Colin ducked into the shuttle and took off. The Doctor watched until it disappeared from his line of vision, then headed to where he and Clara had left the TARDIS, his mind working fast and furious. 

* * *

_8 1/2 hours left on the TARDIS countdown_

Akhaten’s sun still cast that odd reddish light that Clara remembered so distinctly from her first visit here. It just didn’t seem so foreboding now that the Devourer—or the Old God, as the people used to call it—was gone. The ground didn’t shake, either, and nobody seemed to be living on tenterhooks. 

     _Well, except for_ us _,_ she thought, running her finger over the nano-earbud the Doctor had given her before he raced off with Prince Colin. She and Merry hadn’t heard from either of them in an hour. Another thirty minutes, though, and Merry would have to go downstairs to kick off the Festival with the lighting of a massive fireworks display. A servant was already busy arranging Merry’s golden hair and ceremonial gown. Clara could tell the young Queen was almost as nervous as she’d been when Clara first met her as a child.  

     “I hate to go out there without Colin,” Merry fretted. “I’ve never been terribly brave, you know. But he makes me feel taller somehow…and stronger.”

     Clara smiled, leaning against the wall with her arms folded. “Well that’s funny, ‘cause I seem to recall a little girl by the name of Merry Galel who sang the Long Song at the top of her lungs even though she was scared to death. If that’s not bravery, I don’t know what is.”

     Merry smiled and dropped her gaze to her lap—or rather, to what was left of it thanks to her huge belly. She murmured something to her maidservant who bowed and scurried out of the room. As soon as the door closed, she turned in the chair towards Clara. 

     “You’ve told me about so many adventures you and the Doctor have shared,” she whispered, “and all the amazing things you’ve done. Tell me: after all you’ve seen, do you think he’ll be able to find the Dobri?”

     Clara nodded. “Oh yeah. Don’t worry about that. Between your people’s scanners and the TARDIS’, he’ll find ‘em in no time.”

     “And when they’re found? Can the Doctor persuade them to trust Colin with their lives?”

     “I think so. This Doctor—well, the Doctor with _this_ face—he’ll never be big on tact, but he does have an uncanny talent for making people see things clearly. He’ll know what to do, and what to say…as long as he doesn’t have to get sentimental.”

     “He doesn’t seem as…gentle,” Merry whispered. 

     Clara laughed softly and shook her head. “No, he likes to put on that tough-old-Scotsman persona. But I’ll tell you one thing: he was putty in your hands back there. You could’ve asked him to stand on his head and he would’ve done it.”

     “You think so?”

     “Oh, I _know_ so! I could see it in his eyes.”

     Merry cracked a thoughtful smile, tilted her head to the side. “Are you and the Doctor…are you like me and Colin?”

     Clara blinked. Merry raised her eyebrows—and Clara remembered that a girl who memorized her planet’s entire history and all its native songs was anything but a dumb cluck. She pushed herself back from the wall and stepped closer, holding Merry’s eager, curious gaze with a mischievous smirk of her own.

     “What do _you_ think?” Clara whispered teasingly. 

     Merry’s eyes sparkled; she rose with exaggerated dignity out of her chair and tipped her head back. “Well… _I_ think I saw him looking at you the way Colin sometimes looks at me, so…I say yes.”

     “Well, _if_ the answer is ‘yes,’ it’s a big bad secret that nobody else in the universe can know.”

     Merry’s eyes widened. “Because?”

     “Because the Doctor has too many enemies who always go after his friends when they want to get his attention.”

     Merry flinched as if Clara had just splashed cold water in her face. “ _Oh_. Oh, I see…”

     Clara frowned. “Do you?”

     Merry looked down and turned away, running her fingers along the edge of her vanity. Clara watched her, noticing the way her slender shoulders slumped as if she’d suddenly taken on a heavy load, and felt a cold dread churning in her gut. 

     “Merry? Is someone targeting Colin to get to you?”

     Merry turned with a start and shook her head. “Oh no, no, but…”

     “Is someone targeting _you_ to get to Colin?”

     Merry’s face twisted. “I…I…”

     There was a knock at the door and the maidservant popped her head in. “Pardon, Majesty, but the city square is full. The Master of Ceremonies wishes to know if you’re ready to come and light the opening display”

     Merry nodded, drew a shuddering breath. “Thank you, Priya. I’ll be there in just a moment.”

     The maidservant bowed and ducked out again. Clara drew closer to Merry. The young queen kept her eyes down and her hands clasped so tightly on top of her stomach, her knuckles were white. 

     “Merry,” Clara whispered, touching her shoulder. “If you and your husband need a different kind of help other than what we’re offering with the Dobri, you know you only have to ask.”

     “I—I know.” Merry shivered, looked up nervously, tried to smile. “But I am sure we will be just fine. And I’m sure I can face all those people…if you’ll walk out with me.”

     Clara hesitated, but decided not to press the issue. She nodded and gave Merry’s hands a gentle little squeeze, hoping and hoping that the Doctor had found some clues about the Dobri’s whereabouts by now. 

* * *

_8 hours left on the TARDIS countdown_

Meanwhile in the TARDIS, the Doctor set his teeth and readjusted, fine-tuned, and re-focused his bio-scanners. Invisible creatures who had to blend in with their surroundings at all times usually left some kind of energy wave, right? Invisible android assassins definitely did—Missy had told Clara that story and Clara had given him no rest until he told her how he got away from the vampire monkeys—but what about purely organic Dobri adolescents?

     “Same principle,” the Doctor muttered, entering information into his computers. “They’ve got to leave some kind of trace, some anomaly that a TARDIS computer _should_ be able to pick up—but honestly, when was the last time I encountered a Dobri? What do I hone in on? Think, Doctor, think. Four hearts, two brains. Already tried that…and picked up six Lucians. The species are distantly related, after all. One of ‘em just has the whole invisibility thing down…”

_What other attributes that are distinctly Dobri could the TARDIS pick up?_

The Doctor jerked his head up, blue eyes widening. “ _Ohhh_.” He darted to the other side of the console and grabbed the revolving screen with one hand, typing new commands into the computer with the other. Immediately a file on the interdimensional colony/internment area popped up, along with all its atmospheric and geological stats. 

     “Floraxic dust!” he cried, racing back to his original position. “Clings to anything and anyone it comes into contact with—doesn’t come off without a solution of oil and blue Aldebaran vinegar, neither of which they’d probably have on a patrol ship full of Vaborians who’d rather drink turpentine than go down among the hated Dobri…”

     The computer beeped and flashed. The Doctor leaned forward, peering eagerly at the screen. 

     “There you are,” he whispered, tracing the pulsating dots on his screen with his finger…until he saw where they’d all congregated. He froze for a moment before he lurched backward, both hearts pounding hard at the implications of what he’d just seen. He pressed a finger to the nano-bud in his ear. 

     “Colin? Colin, I’ve found them.”

     _“Oh, thank goodness. Where are they?”_ the young prince responded over his own earbud. 

     The Doctor cleared his throat. 

     _“Doctor?”_

     “They’re in the amphitheater, Colin,” the Doctor said, struggling to keep his voice even. “And I’m pretty sure they’ve got the big fireworks display surrounded.”

     Colin swore so colorfully, the Doctor couldn’t help but feel a bit impressed. _“I’m on the other side of the city—it’ll take me ten minutes to get there with this traffic!”_

“Never mind that,” the Doctor said, reaching for switches. “I’ll be there three minutes ago.”

* * *

“Oh wow,” Clara breathed as she entered the amphitheater a step or two behind Merry. “It’s just as amazing as I remembered it.”

     Merry smiled. The huge amphitheater with its view of the pyramid suspended in space still dazzled. “At least you don’t have to be afraid of anything gobbling us all up this time.”

     Clara chuckled, glanced around. _Oh yeah, talk about dejà vu._ The seats were full of people, all with happy, eager looks on their unique faces. She spotted plenty of children, too, many of them in possession of the sorts of carnival treats you’d find on Earth. In the middle of the amphitheater four men and women in red ceremonial robes stood beside a huge fireworks set-up. Merry paused at the edge of the amphitheater, tightened her fingers. Clara touched her hand.

     “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You are Merry Galel, Queen of Years, and _you_ , my friend, can do this.”

     Merry drew a shaky breath, pressed her lips together, and nodded. Darting a grateful look up at Clara she smiled and stepped forward, graceful in spite of her awkward bulk, her golden head held high—

     And Clara heard the unmistakable wheeze of a TARDIS on her left. The excited chatter that had died down as Merry stepped forward started up again as the TARDIS solidified and the Doctor scrambled out the door. 

     “Merry, don’t!” he bellowed. “Get back! _Everybody get down!_ ”

     “Doctor, what—?!” Clara began…

     And the explosion threw her completely off her feet. A burst of searing air, blinding light, and a thunderous roar enveloped her and for a moment the heat was all she knew. Just heat. When she finally lifted her face out of the fine brown dirt of the amphitheater floor the skin of her exposed shoulders burned in agony. The ringing in her ears made her own scream sound far away.

     _Doctor…Merry…oh God, I don’t want to die here, I don’t!_ She gritted her teeth and dragged her elbows forward, trying to prop herself up—

     Hands. Hands grabbing her under her arms, easing her to her feet, cupping her elbows to keep her upright, avoiding her shoulders. The cool air and light of the TARDIS wrapped around her and the haze and throbbing heat and the faint screams outside faded. Her knees gave way and she sat down on the floor with a thud. 

     “Clara? Clara, look at me. _Clara!_ ”

     She looked up, saw the Doctor’s face very close to hers. He sounded so far away. He snapped his fingers in her face and she blinked, cleared her throat. 

     “I—I’m okay,” she stammered, barely able to hear herself. 

     “No, you’re not okay, but you will be. Wait a sec.”

     He scrambled to his feet and darted off to the medbay. Clara shivered, but not from a chill; the shock was starting to seep in to her bones. Glancing to the side she saw a small heap of red on the floor a few feet away. Her heart jumped into her throat; she tried to stand, gave up, crawled over instead. Merry lay on her side with her eyes closed, her face covered in grime and burns—but her pulse beat strong. Clara’s throat clogged and tears sprang into her swollen eyes.

     “Clara.” The Doctor touched her back, protected by the green dress. “Let me help you.”

     “Help _her_ …”

     “I don’t have time! Let me help _you_ and then you can help her, okay? C’mere.”

     He gently pulled her back into a sitting position and turned her wrist over. Clara watched, still shuddering, as he carefully injected something into her wrist, rubbed the skin, and wrapped a light bandage over the spot in all of twenty seconds. Her head started to clear almost immediately. Her ears, too.

     “What happened?” she croaked, relieved to hear her own voice properly. 

     “The Dobri got to the fireworks,” the Doctor grumbled, rubbing some kind of ointment on her shoulders. She hissed in pain, only to relax as the cooling medicine seeped into her scorched pores. “And of course, since no one could see them, nobody could stop them. They’ve got the star system’s attention now.”

     “Where is Colin?”

     “On his way.” 

     “And the people?”

     The Doctor’s jaw clenched. He snapped the ointment tube closed and pressed it into her hand. “They’re not _all_ hurt.”

     “But some of them are,” Clara whispered. 

     He looked her in the eye. “Sometimes all you have are bad choices, Clara—but you still have to choose. And I choose to leave you here _with Merry_ —”

     “Doctor—”

     “Because we are holding onto something precious.”

     “All those other people are precious, too!”

     “And they have plenty of people who’ll help them, but we can’t turn the TARDIS into a hospital right now, not when she’s already compromised and possibly surrounded by invisible enemies.” He cupped her grimy face in his hands. “Chin up, Clara Oswald. I’ll be back.”

     “You’d better be,” Clara whispered. 

     He didn’t smile, but he leaned forward and kissed her hard. She closed her fingers around his wrists as tightly as she could for as long as she could—but then he broke the kiss roughly and leaped to his feet, slamming the door behind him. At the sound, Merry stirred. 

     “Colin…” she breathed.

     Clara scrambled back to her side. “Merry? Merry, it’s okay—I’ve got you.”

     The young queen cracked one eye open, then the other, and drew a hissing breath through her teeth. Clara swallowed hard and squeezed some of the ointment onto her hand. 

     “I know, I know. You’ve got some bad burns, but if I can take care of those real quick and get you to the medbay—”

     Merry let out a tortured scream. Clara jerked back. She hadn’t even touched the burns yet…but when she saw Merry’s shaking hands travel down to her swollen belly, she froze. 

     _Oh no. No. You have_ got _to be kidding me…_

“Clara?” Merry sobbed. “Clara, I think…”

     “Yeah,” Clara whispered, her heart pounding as she laid her own hand over Merry’s stomach. “I think so, too.”

* * *

The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS and immediately broke out in a sweat as the roaring heat of the fire in the middle of the amphitheater swept in his direction on the breeze. Colin and his men had just arrived. Screaming, crying people poured through every available exit. The Doctor watched them with a worried glare, looking for anyone who might be at risk of getting trampled. 

     “Doctor?” Colin shouted, running towards him. “Where’s Merry?”

     The Doctor jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the TARDIS in reply. He no longer watched the panicked audience: his gaze had been caught instead by five flickering silhouettes in front of the fire…silhouettes that no naked eye would’ve noticed without that intense, searing backlight.

     If they weren’t in the middle of an open amphitheater he might’ve been more concerned about the structure collapsing on top of them. As it was, this was the perfect setting for a confrontation. 

     _Very theater-ish. Somebody’s got a flair for the dramatic._

“I see you out there!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “One, two, three, four, five? Honestly, you couldn’t have made your intentions better known if you’d’a put up a big red sign sayin’, ‘Hello, we are the Dobri and it’s payback time!’ ”

     One of the shadows came a little closer. He certainly heard the voice—unmistakably female —very clearly. 

     “We demand our freedom.”

     “So you blow up hundreds of pounds worth of explosives in front of thousands of innocent spectators?” the Doctor snapped. “Not exactly the best way to endear you to local society.”

     A second shadow rippled nearer to him, away from the fire. “If _you_ had been clamoring for _your_ liberty for decades and nobody listened to _you_ , would _you_ resort to gentler methods?”

     “Maybe not—after all, I’ve never been one to do anything by halves—but I _can_ tell you this!” And here the Doctor’s index finger shot out and he glared as ferociously as he knew how, keenly aware that the Dobri were watching and gauging him and his every word, his every expression. “I would _never_ put innocent lives at risk no matter how passionately I believed in my cause. You blame the Vaborians for bloodshed but what do you think you accomplished here, hmm?”

     The Dobri didn’t reply. In the pause something behind them exploded, sending sparks and debris flying up in to the billowing black smoke. Colin put his hand over his mouth and nose; the Doctor suppressed a cough and maintained the staring contest. The Dobri never flinched, so far as he could tell. He took a step closer to them this time.

     “We can help,” he called, “but only if you promise to go quietly and calmly with Prince Colin and his men. You have no quarrel with the Akhatens, I can promise you that.”

     One of the male Dobri laughed harshly. “No indeed! We have neither quarrel nor any great friendship with people who stand idly by while we rot in our prison!” 

     Prince Colin took a long, determined step forward. “And that objection, young man…is completely understandable. But I swear on my life: you can trust me and my wife to treat you with great fairness—and now that we have you here on this planet, we can plead your cause without ceasing to the Empress of the Vaborians.”

     The Doctor heard a few skeptical chuckles, followed by an acerbic reply: “A lot of power you must have—the mere husband of a Queen?”

     Prince Colin’s jaw set. The Doctor watched him and his clenching fingers closely…and raised his eyebrows and took an involuntary step back as the balled fists and the chiseled face changed from fleshy-white to flawless blue. The Dobri lurched backward and the Doctor heard terror and confusion in their cries. 

     “I have more power in me to help you than you’d ever imagine,” Prince Colin said, his voice firm but not harsh. “Not only am I the husband of Merry Galel, Queen of Years…but I am a Vaborian—one who despised his own planet and its policies so much that he arranged his own apparent death and fled his mother so he could win the hand of the beautiful, tenderhearted girl he loved. _You_ may be invisible but _I_ have remained unseen all this long time for the sake of the woman I love—and as her husband, I can do more for your cause and put more pressure on my mother the Empress than anything these…these _pyrotechnics_ could ever accomplish. But you must trust _me…_ and trust _this_ man…to fight for you.”

     The Doctor swallowed—he realized a little too late that he’d been staring at Colin with his mouth open—and glanced at the Dobri’s shadows. They’d gone silent but he could see them standing still, probably studying him and Colin and weighing their options. The amphitheater had gone quiet, too; the audience had gotten to safety. 

     He hoped there weren’t any casualties still huddled behind the seats. 

     “Why?” one of the Dobri—the first who’d spoken, the female—demanded. “Why would you _want_ to help us?”

     Prince Colin smiled a little. “Because like you, I don’t want to carry the burden of my ancestors. We younger generations should be given the chance of a fresh start, don’t you think?”

     Another hesitation; this time the Doctor saw the Dobri group together a bit. He wiped sweaty hands on the front of his coat. Honestly, he hadn’t felt this uncomfortably warm since he regenerated. 

     _And I haven’t felt as if matters were completely out of my hands since…I don’t even know._

The foremost Dobri straightened and stepped ahead of her companions. “Very well…Prince Cor’lahri of Vaboria. That is your true name, isn’t it?”

     “It is,” Colin said quietly. 

     Her shadow flickered in a slow nod. “Then we surrender…to your mercy.”

* * *

_7 1/2 hours left on the TARDIS countdown_

“Have you ever done this before?” Merry gasped from the medbay bed.

     Clara was glad she had her back to the girl as she pulled on a sterile robe over her green dress. That way she could keep her tone chipper even if she couldn’t keep a totally confident look on her face. “Well, I’ve watched every episode of _Call the Midwife_ , so here’s hoping that counts for something.”

     Poor Merry only groaned in response. Clara turned and saw the girl clenching the sheets, gritting her teeth until her face turned red. Clara hurried to her and touched her shoulder, frantically reading the stats on the monitor connected to the bed. _Heart rate, baby’s heart rate, blood pressure_. And it not only showed her how far Merry had dilated in the past half-hour, but the baby’s position, too. 

     It was coming _fast_. In the correct position, and without any obvious distress—but _fast._

“Merry?” Clara whispered. “I’m pretty sure you can push now whenever you feel like it.”

     “I’m scared,” Merry sobbed. “I’m so scared…”

     “I know. I know! And guess what? _I’m_ scared out of my mind.” Clara cupped Merry’s cheek in her hand and looked her in the eye. “But you know what else? Girls like you and me, we’ve been doin’ this for _eons_. We’re stronger than we think we are—and _you_ , Merry Galel, are much, _much_ braver than you think. You can do this.”

     Merry shuddered and nodded. “I can do this. I can do this…”

     “You better believe you can.”

     Merry tried to laugh but the next wave of pain seized her first. She groped for Clara’s hand—Clara gave it to her willingly—and Merry bore down. Clara counted to ten under her breath and Merry fell back gasping. 

     “Wonderful!” Clara cried, watching the monitor. “Do that again with the next contraction, and this baby’ll be here in no time!”  
     “It hurts…”

     “ ‘No pain, no gain.’ That’s what my gran always says—and your gain will be a beautiful, _beautiful_ little baby.”

     Merry nodded, heaved, mustered her strength, and did it all over again. Clara smoothed her hair, whispering or shouting encouragement while she kept one eye on the stats, dreading the moment when she’d have to go to the end of the bed. When that moment finally came she pulled in a deep breath and assumed her position. 

     The sight turned her stomach a bit, but she cleared her throat and threw her head back. 

     “I can do this,” she whispered to herself. “I’m the Impossible Girl, I stepped into the Doctor’s timestream, I have faced Daleks and Cybermen and pirates and Mire and Martian Ice Warriors and ghosts—I can most _certainly_ deliver a baby. In a maid-of-honor dress. No sweat.”

     “It’s coming!” Merry wailed.

     “No kidding!” Clara tried to laugh. “Go for it, Merry!”

     Merry pushed hard. Clara reached for the head and cupped it in her gloved fingers.

     “Okay, now slow down, slow down!” she shouted. “Small breaths. Pant, Merry, pant!” 

     Merry obeyed, her young face red and sweaty; her golden hair clung to her cheeks. She bore down again and Clara held her breath as blood and water spurted onto the sheets. _Perfectly normal, stay calm Clara, breathe._ “You’re doin’ great, Merry, the shoulders are almost out…”

     All this long time Merry never once screamed, but now she did—and it nearly scared Clara to death. The shoulders squeezed through. Merry gave one final, desperate effort—

     And a fat, squirming baby slipped right into Clara’s hands, screaming at the top of its lungs. Merry fell back with a groan but Clara froze, staring in utter confusion at the precious creature kicking and wailing between her palms. 

     _Blue._ The baby was blue. And not in an unhealthy sort of way, either. 

     The baby was Vaborian blue _._

“Is it all right?” Merry whispered. “Is my baby all right?”

     Clara looked up and smiled as brightly as she could. “ _She_ is perfect. See?”

     She lifted the squalling baby, more terrified of Merry’s reaction than she’d been over catching the infant. But the young mother didn’t even look the slightest bit surprised. A huge, joyous smile broke out over her tired face as she held out her arms, her fingers wiggling in anticipation. 

     “Oh, my baby,” she whispered. “ _My baby…_ ”

     Clara handed the baby over and draped a clean blanket over mother and child as soon as Merry had the baby on her chest. There’d be time for questions later—but for now, if Merry was happy then _she_ was happy.

     And judging by the way the baby quieted and snuggled up to Merry’s chest, _she_ was happy, too. 

* * *

_4 hours left on the TARDIS countdown_

The red light of Akhaten’s sun had died down into a cool, breezy night by the time the city’s fire brigade smothered the last of the flames in the amphitheater. Emergency teams from the local infirmary had been brought in, too, to take away the injured. The Doctor was relieved: if the fireworks display had been any closer to the audience, they might’ve had fatalities. 

     _And if Merry and Clara had gotten any closer…_

He glanced at the TARDIS, still standing at the edge of the amphitheater. He’d talked to Clara and gotten a whispered, shaky update on Merry—but he hadn’t breathed a word of what she’d told him to anyone. He hadn’t gone inside the TARDIS, either. Colin had taken the Dobri to an undisclosed but (he promised them) safe and protected location, and while the Doctor waited for him to come back he simply busied himself helping to clean up the smoking, debris-filled area.

     He didn’t want to go in there, see Clara and Merry with the new baby princess, and then have to tear himself away again. And he didn’t want to see the maddening distraction of the spacial destabilizer’s countdown, either. He knew exactly how much time they had left. If Colin didn’t get back soon he’d have to get Merry and Clara outside…and then… 

     “Doctor?” 

     He whirled at Colin’s voice. Looking tired but satisfied, the young man hurried towards him and seized the Doctor’s hand before he could react. 

     “The Dobri are settling in,” Colin said eagerly, “and they’ve agreed to stay behind a forcefield that’ll allow us to see them! They’re frightened youths, Doctor…and I think, given time, they’ll even express regret over this crisis today. Thank goodness nobody was killed. The people of Akhate will be more inclined to forgive them because of it.”

     “And your mother?” the Doctor asked, rescuing his hand from Colin’s grip as politely as he could manage. 

     Colin’s smile faltered a bit. He glanced down at his own hand—white again, with pink undertones—and chuckled weakly. 

     “My mother,” he said quietly, “will have quite the rude awakening when I publicly plead the Dobri’s case…as myself. Cor’lahri. She will have no choice but to begin a full reassessment of Vaboria’s policies once I reveal myself and immediately set to work—”

     “See, _that’s_ what I’m not gettin’,” the Doctor interrupted. “She sent you to meet Merry as her representative and the next thing everybody knows—or _thinks_ —your ship’s crashed and your mother’s got yet another reason to despise Akhate.”

     Colin sighed, let his gaze drift to the workers as they raked up the remnants of the fireworks and the scorched earth. “My mother sent me to meet with Merry, yes. To work out the problem with the trade routes. No one—least of all myself—expected the Crown Prince of Vaboria and the Queen of Years to…”

     The Doctor frowned. “To fall in love?”

     Colin glanced at him, then at the ground. “You think me a fool.”

     “Well, if the old saying’s true and we’re all fools in love, I’d say you’re in good company. But let me get this straight: rather than ask your mother’s permission to marry her rival queen—permission you and Merry both knew she’d never give—you faked your death, shape-shifted into an Akhaten, and married Merry instead.”

     Colin’s sheepish expression was answer enough. The Doctor raised his eyebrows in muted approval and jerked his head towards the big blue box. “What about my TARDIS?”

     The prince’s old smile flashed back to life. “Ah yes. I highly doubt my mother counted on you running into any sympathetic Vaborians when she put that destabilizer on your ship…”

     He strode towards the TARDIS. The Doctor watched, a smirk slowly spreading over his face, as Colin’s tall, strong form shifted; his Akhaten clothes changed from a fine leather jacket and trousers to the shimmering gold of imperial robes, and his reddish hair turned long and lush and black. When Colin glanced over his shoulder, the Doctor found himself looking into the regal face of Empress Kav’lahri. She—or rather, Colin—shot him a smile and ran a blue hand over the TARDIS’ side before bending low and speaking into the tiny steel device fastened to its back.

     “By order of the Empress of Vaboria, the bargain is met. End your hold on this vessel.”

     The device whirred, and its single green light died out. The Doctor strode over eagerly as the imposter-Empress pried it loose, shifted back into Colin of Akhate, and tossed it to him. The Doctor caught it in one hand. 

     “There,” Colin said, springing to his feet. “Take care next time you visit Vaboria, Doctor, lest my mother blackmail you into another mission. Now…where’s my wife?”

     The Doctor turned the device over in his hands, already plotting its dissection in the TARDIS lab, and nodded at the doors. “Right through there. Believe she’s got a surprise for you.”

     “A surprise?” Colin frowned and reached for the door…and stopped. He stared at the Doctor. The Doctor merely raised his eyebrows again and smiled. The prince got the message: his eyes widened and he threw open the door, crashing into the console room. 

     “Merry! _Merry!_ ”

     “Of course an expectant father would remain completely oblivious to the whole ‘bigger on the inside’ concept,” the Doctor muttered, closing the door behind him. “Half a second, Colin, slow down—you go runnin’ off without a guide and you’ll be lost for a week!”

     Colin whirled. “A surprise. Are you saying that—the baby—”

     The Doctor opened his mouth, intending to explain slowly and carefully—but before he could get a word out he caught a flicker of movement behind them. Colin turned, following his gaze.

     At the end of one of the corridors sat Merry in one of the medbay wheelchairs, her young face tired but clean and free of all but a few lingering burns and her small frame clad in a pair of Clara’s pajamas. She cradled a small, thick bundle in the crook of her arm. Clara, meanwhile, pushed the wheelchair with one of the Doctor’s hoodies pulled over her filthy, wrinkled maid-of-honor dress.

     “Merry?” Colin breathed. 

     A tearful smile flickered over Merry’s face. “Colin.”

     The young man hesitated no longer: he sprinted from the Doctor’s side and cupped her face in his hands, kissing her tenderly before turning his attention to the tiny person in her arms. Clara sidled past him, holding out her arms like a weary child. The Doctor glanced at Colin and Merry, assured himself they weren’t paying him or Clara any mind, and opened his own arms. She tumbled straight into him, nestling her head underneath his chin. 

     “Are you okay?” she whispered. 

     “Of course. I’m the King of Okay.”

     “I was so scared…”

     “Looks to me like you did just fine.”

     Clara laughed softly and pushed herself back enough to look up at him. “Well, that’s all Merry’s doing. I basically just caught the baby.” She glanced over her shoulder at the little family and her forehead wrinkled. “It’s perfectly healthy…that blue tint definitely hasn’t got anything to do with its circulation, but…”

     “Clara.” The Doctor gently took her by the arms and turned her back towards him. “Colin’s Vaborian. He’s the Empress’ son.”

     “He’s…wait, _what?!_ ”

     “He and Merry will be able to tell you the story better than I can. In the meantime…why don’t you introduce me to Her Little Royal Highness?”

     Clara pursed her lips in a mischievous smile. “ _After_ you clean up. You look like you’ve been rolling around in the soot…” 

     With that she licked her thumb and started rubbing his cheek with it. The Doctor grimaced and jerked his head back. 

     “That’s unsanitary, Clara—stop it.”

     “Says the man who once made me crawl through the insides of a Dalek.” Clara giggled at his indignant glare. “Okay fine, come and meet her. I’ll warn you, though: she’s not named after you.”

     “I wouldn’t expect her to be—”

     “ ‘Cause she’s named after _me_.” 

     The Doctor felt his eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline. Clara beamed and seized his hand before he could think of a coherent reply, eager in spite of her obvious exhaustion and his disarray to introduce him to her tiny namesake.

* * *

“It’ll all work out, you’ll see,” the Doctor called from their bedroom in the TARDIS a few hours later. “Colin will shock the you-know-what out of his mum, announce he’s not only married to the Queen of Years but the father of her child, too—and the sheer ridiculousness of it all will give him the public interest and platform he needs to guarantee the Dobri’s eventual rehabiliation as functionin’ members of the Akhaten Star System. It’ll be a triumph of diplomacy!”

     Clara hung the filthy maid of honor dress on the back of the bathroom door and tugged on her pajamas. “And in the meantime, I get a future Queen of Akhaten named after me _and_ major kudos for playin’ midwife.”

     She heard him chuckle. “You’ve earned your pay for the day, Clara Oswald.”

     “Oh, I earned it as soon as you started shouting for me back there at the wedding venue.”

     “Should I have called for you over the TARDIS’ loudspeaker instead?” he demanded a bit irritably.

     Clara giggled and emerged from the bathroom only to find him already half-sitting, half-lying in bed on top of the blankets with one arm behind his head. He didn’t look at all tired, and she had a feeling this would be one of those nights where she slept like a rock while he simply held her, not needing sleep in the slightest but wanting desperately to stay as close to her as he could. 

     “Trust me, Doctor, you don’t need loudspeakers,” she said, throwing back the blankets on her side of the bed and snuggling in close. “You were plenty loud enough. You’ve got a set of lungs on you, y’know?”

     “I still doubt they’re as strong as Little Princess Clara’s,” he chuckled. 

     She giggled and slid an arm over his chest. “True. Although considering all the screamin’ and shoutin’ _we’ve_ done lately, any little hybrid baby of ours might give Princess Clara a run for her money.”

     The Doctor turned his head and shot her an intense look. “What do you mean?”

     Clara blinked, suddenly realizing what she’d just blurted out…and realizing, too, that she had let her mind wander to too many what-ifs ever since she saw him cradling the tiny princess right before they left Akhate. He’d looked so content…so peaceful. She looked away and nuzzled his shoulder with her chin. 

     “I…nothin’,” she murmured. “I was just imagining.”

     “Clara…”

     “Forget I said it, all right?”

     He said nothing, merely letting her play with the fabric of his t-shirt for a long, silent moment before he finally turned onto his side and cupped her face in his strong, slender hands. She submitted willingly to a gentle kiss, and when he pulled back and ran his thumbs over her cheekbones she found herself soaking up his gaze like it was the only thing she ever wanted. 

     “Clara, my Clara,” he whispered. “We aren’t exactly Romeo and Juliet, are we?”

     She raised her eyebrows. “Who said I wanted to be like _them_?”

     “Well…aren’t Colin and Merry? Boy and girl from feuding families—or planets, in this case—fall in love, get married in secret, and defy the universe at every turn. Thank goodness, of course, that this time there’s no idiotic ending, and they live happily ever after with a mini-version of themselves…”

     “Minus the feuding families, that sounds an awful lot like us,” Clara laughed. “Still… I don’t _want_ to be like Colin and Merry anymore than I want to be like Romeo and Juliet. I want to be like _us_.”

     “Even with the occasional embarrassments in front of your stepmother?” the Doctor teased. 

     She giggled. “Oh, I suppose…”

     “And always with the possibility of danger, frenzy, and mayhem?”

     “Oh, _especially_ that.”

     This time he laughed—a short yet mellow sound that thrilled her down to her toes—and she knew that for now he’d forgotten her careless comment about a half-Time Lord, half-human baby. 

     But if she dreamed that night about him murmuring old Gallifreyan lullabies over a precious, perfect little person with his eyes and her nose, she kept it to herself. 

     Some dreams were probably left unsaid. At least for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for everyone's patience with this chapter! Updates may come slower from here on out as I juggle between this writing project and another (non-fanfiction) story, but Whouffaldi is just too much fun to write! And obviously I've left a little hint in that last scene of where I want things to go, sooooooo...stay tuned. This story ain't finished.


	10. Unspoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara Oswald has traveled with the Doctor long enough to know he'll never tell her outright that he loves her. It's just not his style. But then the Zygons happen, and something in him breaks wide open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a much more introspective piece than the previous chapters, and my attempt to explain why we never actually hear the Doctor say "I love you" to Clara. There are some references to the first two chapters, however--and you'll also notice a major divergence from canonical Doctor Who chronology. It's a very important change and critical to the future of this AU, but I can't tell you anymore than that right now because--(*River voice*)--spoilers!
> 
> Enjoy!

_The smile on your face lets me know that you need me_

_There’s a truth in your eyes sayin’ you’ll never leave me_

_The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me if ever I fall_

_You say it best when you say nothing at all._

 

_—Alison Krauss, “When You Say Nothing At All”_

* * *

 

Clara Oswald knows what River Song learned a long time ago: loving the Doctor is like loving a mountain, or a sunset. All three are amazing, wonderful, and larger than life, but so beyond _you_ and your own limited experience that you have no choice but to accept the probability that your love may never be returned in the same solid, earthy way in which you offer it. 

     Clara Oswald knows this, and at one point she even thought she’d made her peace with it.  _“The trick is: don’t fall in love. I do that trick a lot, sometimes twice a day.”_  

     Funny thing, though: it was a lot easier to do that trick when he had no problem smiling at her or hugging her or running his fingers through her hair while she rested her head in his lap during a shower of shooting stars. Her Bow-Tie Boy was fun and darling and she knew, deep down, that he loved her…even if that simply meant he considered her his best and dearest friend. 

     She thought she could be content with that. After all, Clara Oswald was (and is) the Queen of Making Things Work.

     But when he stood before her in the TARDIS that one last time, in pain and in tears and in the final moments of a transition with no return, her broken, aching heart screamed it:

     _“I love you—I love you so much—PLEASE DON’T CHANGE!”_

But he _did_ change, from an ancient, kindly hero with a youthful face to a hurting, grey-haired man with edges as rough and cold as a Scottish crag. The Siege of Trenzalore had left deep, festering scars that he shielded with frosty arrogance and a façade of indifference to anyone and everyone but her. And even though part of her sometimes begged her to call it quits, she never could bring herself to do it. He was still the Doctor, and he needed her.  

     Maybe _that’s_ what was really going on with Danny, though. Maybe a perfect boyfriend would allow her a tidy excuse for eventually leaving the Doctor. It’d be the most natural way to end things, after all. Virtually painless. 

     Of course it didn’t work out that way, and she’ll be punishing herself until she dies with the knowledge that she used Danny and broke his heart. Danny knew the truth. _He_ knew why she couldn’t leave the Doctor long before she did.

     Clara Oswald: English teacher, Impossible Girl…and Stupidest Woman On The Planet. Why hadn’t she seen it? Why did it take watching the Doctor confront a murderous mummy only he could see, with fire and ice and storm raging in those wild blue eyes of his and his shoulders thrown back and that ferocious Scottish burr roaring out of him—why did it take all of _that_ to make her pounding heart scream loud enough for her to hear:

     _“I love you, I love you so much, PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!”_

She loved him, but not with the girlish hero worship she’d showered on the Bow-Tie Boy. She knew _this_ man’s flaws far too well for all that. No…she loved him with something far deeper, far more intense, and far more _forever._ She even let it roll off her tongue while she was talking to Danny on the phone, but with her eyes fixed on the Time Lord working quietly at the console: “I love you.”

     _I love you, Doctor. I will always love you._  

But loving him was still like loving a mountain, and Clara Oswald was much too experienced and much too practical to think he could ever love her back. Or, at least, love her back in the same way she loved him. 

     She could be content with that, though. After all, Clara Oswald was (and is) the Queen of Making Things Work.

 

* * *

 

The first time she thought she might be wrong about him never loving her back, they were in the middle of a global forest and she’d just given him permission to leave her and the rest of humankind to their fate. He’d stared at her like he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right, and then he’d taken a step closer and dropped his voice so only she could hear him speaking. 

     “This is my world, too,” he murmured. “I walk your earth. I breathe your air.”

     And in just the time it took her to catch her breath she remembered flinging those same words in his face just a couple of months before, back when he’d left her high and dry on the moon to decide Earth’s future all by herself. Now he handed them back to her like a gift he desperately wanted her to accept before Danny noticed the two of them standing a little too close, gazing a little too deeply into each other’s eyes. 

     _“This is my world, too.”_

She didn’t accept his offer to stay and face annihilation at her side. Figuratively speaking, she closed his fingers gently around the sacrifice, pushed it back into his chest, and simply told him to run. _Run, you clever boy, and remember me._ But she did wonder, as she watched him leave, if he’d been trying to say more with his eyes than he would ever say out loud. 

     _“This is my world, too, Clara Oswald._ You _are_ _my world.”_

There was no annihilation, of course. He came back, they solved the mystery of the trees, and together aboard the TARDIS they watched the dance of the solar flares. Over the next couple of days, though, she thought long and hard about what he’d said and the way he’d said it, and she became more and more convinced that that had been as close to a love confession as she’d ever get. 

     She had all but decided to stay with _him_ no matter what and tell Danny as gently as she could when everything came crashing down. 

 

* * *

 

“You betrayed me. Betrayed my trust, betrayed our friendship, betrayed everything that I’ve ever stood for— _You let me down!!!_ ”

     The Doctor roared his condemnation without restraint and Clara wanted nothing more than to burst into tears—not because he scared her, or because she was already so shattered by Danny’s death, but because she could hear the pain throbbing in his voice. Pain that _she_ had inflicted. They’d just woken from their shared dream at the volcano and she had absolutely no doubt that he hated her. She didn’t blame him, not in the slightest. She _deserved_ to be hated.

     And yet…and yet…

     “Then why are you helping me?” she quavered. 

     Just like that, the fury vanished from his eyes.

     “ _Why_?” He strode around the TARDIS console, his weathered face softening until he suddenly looked so much younger and so much gentler. “Do you think I care for you so little that betraying me would make a difference?”

     Clara’s heart stuttered. It crashed over her like a wave: the tenderness in his voice, the sadness in his eyes, the thing he left unspoken because he knew she was smart enough to figure out what he meant: _“I love you, Clara Oswald, and nothing you could ever say or do would change that.”_

He loved her, and she didn’t need him to say it because he proved it over and over again over the next few hours, helping her even though she didn’t deserve it and even though he couldn’t _stand_ the man she was desperate to save. 

     It was mercy and it was grace. This is part of who the Doctor was, is, and always will be: no matter the face, no matter the place, he will always choose mercy. 

     

* * *

 

They spent too much time apart after that, each of them thinking it was for the other’s good. But shared dreams came into play again. A nightmare saved the Doctor and his Impossible Girl at Christmas—and when they woke up they ran away together as fast as they could, giddy with a love they could no longer deny and an urgency to make up for lost time. 

     They’re _still_ running, by the way. Clara’s never been happier, and even though she still tries to create some balance between her responsibilities on Earth and their adventures, she now has the incredible privilege and pleasure of being not just his friend and his confidant, but his lover and his wife. They are both blissfully content and she hopes they never stop running.       

     There was something in that last dream, though, at Christmas, that she still thinks about a lot. She keeps going back to that moment when he’d thought she was an old, decrepit woman, and she remembers what he said: _“Clara Oswald, you’ll never look any different to me.”_

It still strikes her as odd, and this is why: he knows every square inch of her now and he’s _got_ to know all the ways she’s changed. For one thing, she’s a lot skinnier than she was when the Bow-Tie Boy first showed up on her doorstep—that’s what comes of spending a good 70% of your life runnin’ from Daleks and sand piranhas and all the rest—and for another, she’s got several grey strands popping out of her scalp these days. She’s pretty sure she got the first one when Missy pushed her down a sewer shaft on Skaro. 

     But there’s a far more sobering change in her appearance, too. The Maitlands’ nanny who visited Akhaten, Sweetville, and Hedgewick's World of Wonders had a far more innocent, lighthearted look about her that the Doctor’s young wife knows she’ll never get back. She looks older now. Wiser. Sadder.

     Time has looked into Clara Oswald’s face, and Time has left its mark.  

     And yet. _And yet…_

“What happens when I _really_ turn old and grey?” she asks him one evening while he’s patching up the scrapes on her knees. They’ve just gotten back from an exceptionally perilous adventure involving pterodactyl-like creatures and a mad scramble up a jagged cliff; they’re both exhausted, but he’s so startled by her question that he jerks his head up and scowls at her, eyebrows in full attack mode.  

     “What are you goin’ on about?” he grumbles. 

     She leans back, her palms flat against the medbay bed. “I’m getting older, y’know. And don’t give me any of your stellar menopause jokes ‘cause I’m not _that_ old! But I won’t be your drop-dead gorgeous companion forever. Certainly won’t be able to run as fast as I did today!”

     She laughs a little at that last part, but the Doctor says nothing. He doesn’t even serve a good-natured jab at her vanity. He just smoothes the bandage over her knee and runs the backs of his fingers along her calf. 

     “Well,” he murmurs, “I didn’t start out like _this_ , either. Did that make any difference?”

     Clara blinks, thinks back to those first few hard weeks after he’d regenerated…and answers honestly. “No. I loved you anyway. Even if I didn’t know it.”

     “Exactly.” He lifts his head, gives her one of his playful, twinkle-eyed grins. “Besides. We’ll make quite a match with our white hair and crows’ feet…not to mention the occasional achy joint.”

     She laughs, and he chuckles too as he stands and cups her smiling ( _older, wiser, sadder_ ) face in his hands. 

     “Besides, it still holds true,” he says gently. “You’ll _never_ look any different to me.”

Clara smiles and closes her eyes as he kisses her forehead—and she not only believes every word, but the once-again-unspoken _“I love you”_ behind them. 

 

* * *

 

There’s something you need to know about the Doctor: Clara Oswald might’ve spent six months alone after they told their lies and parted ways at that coffee shop, but those six months were fifty years for _him_. Fifty years of running as fast as he could from the gnawing realization that he might never find Gallifrey, fifty years of thinking Missy was dead, fifty years of assuming that he would never see Clara Oswald again. 

     But he didn’t spend all fifty of those years alone. No indeed. 

     He spent twenty-four of them on Darillium. 

     Looking back, it was exactly what he’d needed—for that particular moment in his life as well as for what was coming. River—his crazy, beautiful, wonderful, reckless River—didn’t even recognize him at first, but when she did (in the middle of an intergalactic restaurant occupied by some of the most notorious figures in the known universe, no less) it was enormously satisfying.

     So were the years of domestic life with her that followed. 

     River whittled soft the last of his grimmer edges, the ones that Clara had tried so hard to buff smooth. She taught him how to love again, to show more tenderness and empathy, and how to curb his sharp Scottish tongue. True, he’d never be as demonstrative, chipper, or smiley as his last self—but by the time the sun began to rise on Darillium’s twenty-four-year night he was far gentler, far quieter, and far more at peace with himself.

     They didn’t say “goodbye” easily. The Doctor hates goodbyes—always has, always will—and this was one of the hardest he'd ever faced. River’s eyes glistened as she shoved the sonic screwdriver he’d given her into her belt. She tossed that glorious hair of hers over her shoulder, took a deep breath, and looked him in the eye. 

     “Don’t be alone,” she said firmly. “Whatever you do, don’t stay alone. I’ll have Nardole keep an eye on you from afar—”

     “Oh River, no,” the Doctor had groaned. 

     “Oh River, _yes_. Nardole’s a good sort of chap—and he owes you a debt, if you’ll recall. If he thinks you’re gettin’ into any serious trouble on your own, he’ll intervene. And by the by,” she added, her eyes twinkling in spite of her tears in a way that reminded him of Amy Pond, “I’ve given him full permission to kick your arse, too, if he decides it’s necessary.” 

     The Doctor smirked. “Then tell me, Dr. Song…how do I avoid this fate worse than death?”

     “I already told you: don’t be alone.” She pressed her lips together and stepped closer, smoothing the front of the hoodie he’d pulled on over his thick sweater. “I’m probably never going to see you again, Doctor, so…consider yourself free.”

     “River…” 

     “ _Hush_ —don’t interrupt me—you’ll only make it harder!” She drew a shaky breath and curled her fingers around the hoodie, dropping her head against his collarbone. “I’m not scared. I’m sad…but I’m happy, too. I spent so much time thinking you didn’t love me and now…now I know I was wrong. So wrong. I’m gonna think about _that_ when I face whatever’s up ahead. But you’ll go on like you always do, Doctor, and I…I can’t bear to think of you all by yourself.”

     He brushed his lips over her curls. “Ah, but it’s my curse, River. I’m always alone in the end.”

     “That still doesn’t give you leave to shut yourself out from all the people who love you!” she cried, jerking her head up. “Which is why I’m giving you one last order.”

     He raised his eyebrows, swallowed the lump in his throat. “And what might that be?”

     River inhaled. “Find her.”

     “Find who?”

     She tried to smile. “The Impossible Girl.”

     The Doctor winced, shook his head. “She’s moved on, River.”

     “Oh, I don’t think so,” River said with a little too much coyness, as if she knew something he didn’t. “I know _you_ , Doctor, and for all the happiness you’ve given me here I’m pretty sure there’s a part of your heart that still belongs to her. You go and find her—and you make _her_ happy.”

     “And if I go back and find her married to the PE teacher and havin’ his babies, then what?” 

     “You won’t.”

     “How do you know?!”

     River raised an eyebrow. “Spoilers.” 

     His face must’ve shown his utter shock because she giggled, but the sudden smile breaking over her face dislodged the tears welling up in her eyes. She sniffled, cupped his face in her hands, and something inside him cracked. 

“You loved her, didn’t you?” she whispered. “Then do me a favor, Doctor. Tell her so. I know this face doesn’t like to say it, but I got you to say it a couple of times, didn’t I? It isn’t impossible. And when you say it…oh, it’s like music. You say it to her when I’m gone, all right?”

     He felt like he was malfunctioning: his throat was tight and clogged and she’d gone all blurry and his hearts pounded so hard in his chest he was sure she could hear them. And yet somehow he managed to choke out two words—“All right”—if only because he wanted his beautiful River to be proud of him one last time.

     It’s a promise he finds he can’t keep. Clara basically freed him from any obligation to say it the night he wrapped their wrists together with the bonding cloth, so he decides to tell her how he feels with his actions: in the way he wakes her in the morning with a kiss on her forehead, or the way he cradles her blistered feet in his hands after she uses her shoes as projectiles against pursuing villains on a scorching-hot planet, or the way he risks changing history to save her life. 

     He even tries to tell her with other words. They’re often clumsy attempts, but Clara’s not an idiot. She knows exactly what he means when he says things like: 

     _“I have a duty of care.”_

_“Look at you, with your eyes, and your never giving up, and your anger, and your kindness. One day, the memory of that will hurt so much that I won't be able to breathe…”_

_“I've missed you, Clara Oswald.”_

The last time he tried to say “I love you” to someone other than River, Rose Tyler was crying and he was snatched away before he could finish saying it.

     Is that why he’s afraid to say it to his Impossible Girl, because every time he says “I love you” to anyone they’re always torn away?

     

* * *

 

And then he breaks. 

     The Zygons stand down. Bonnie, Zygella, whatever her name is, orders her fellow rebels to return to their old lives before being accepted as a twin by the brilliant Petronella Osgood. Earth goes back to normal and the Doctor and Clara go back to the TARDIS. 

     Clara’s handling it remarkably well. Of course she is. She spent most of the crisis in a Zygon pod, fighting off Bonnie’s invasion through their shared consciousness. She’s chipper, triumphant. He, on the other hand, just feels fragile.

     “So, you must have thought I was dead for a while?” she prods after they’ve said goodbye to the Osgoods. 

     He avoids eye contact as he pulls a lever. “Yeah.” 

     She raises her eyebrows. “How was that?” 

     Another button, another lever. “Longest month of my life.”

     She laughs a little. “It could only have been five minutes.”

     _Five minutes that felt like an eternity. I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead and I never told you…I thought I’d never have the chance again…oh Clara what if you had died? What would I do, where would I go...I can’t do this without you, my Clara…_

“I’ll be the judge of time,” he says very softly. Immediately he sees the understanding in her eyes, the _knowing_. As always, she hears what he’s saying without him ever having to say it. 

     It doesn’t make him feel any better, though. And he keeps remembering River’s voice. 

_“You loved her, didn’t you? Then do me a favor, Doctor: tell her so. It isn’t impossible. And when you say it…oh, it’s like music. You say it to her when I’m gone, all right?”_

     They’re throwing together a simple meal in the TARDIS kitchen that evening—Clara’s beating eggs in a bowl while he chops vegetables—when she finally breaks the silence. 

     “You’re thinking really, _really_ loud,” she says. 

     He glances at her sidelong. “Am I?”

     She nods, leans her back against the countertop. Her whisk rattles noisily against the bowl she cradles on her hip. “Yeah, I can tell by the way you’re choppin’ that zucchini.”

     “I’m chopping it like a perfectly normal person,” he mutters.

     “No, you’re actin’ like you’ve got a personal vendetta against it.” She moves closer. “Doctor, look at me.” 

     He obeys. She raises her eyebrows, her hand never breaking rhythm. The whisk keeps rattling and spinning against the bowl. It suddenly reminds him of Oswin. 

     _“Eggs-ter-min-ate…”_

     He flings the knife away from him and shoves it and the cutting board away from him with a crash. He staggers to the table, sinks into one of the chairs, buries his face in his hands. Clara slams her bowl onto the counter and hurries to him. 

     “Doctor?” she whispers, gasping as he pulls her close and hides his face in her abdomen.   

     “I love you,” he rasps. “I’m so sorry. I never told you…I thought I’d never get to tell you…”

     “Oh, Doctor.” She wraps her arms around him as well as she can, given their awkward position, and smoothes his hair. “I knew. You didn’t _have_ to tell me…”

     But the raw, groaning sobs wrack his shoulders and he just holds her even more tightly. Clara strokes his hair and rubs his back, whispering soft, soothing words while he weeps. When he finally calms down enough to lift his head and meet her gaze, she wipes his face with the hem of her pajama shirt. When she kisses him he shudders and lets the tension drain out of him. When she curls up on his lap and rests her head on his shoulder he presses his lips to her forehead and cradles her like the precious thing she is. 

     “I love you, Clara,” he whispers. “I love you…I'll always love you…”

     She just smiles and closes her eyes, content to listen to him say it for as long as he wants.

 

* * *

 

Clara Oswald knows what River Song learned a long time ago: loving the Doctor is like loving a mountain, or a sunset. But now Clara Oswald knows what River Song learned not so long ago underneath the Singing Towers of Darillium. 

     Sometimes the mountain will love you back.  

 


	11. The Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Impossible Girl faces the Raven, the Doctor disappears into mysterious captivity...and intervention comes from unexpected quarters.
> 
> The problem is, intervention does not necessarily equate with benevolence.

_All the towers of ivory are crumbling_

_And the swallows sharpen their beaks_

_This is the time of our great undoing_

_This is the time that I'll come running_

_Straight to you, for I am captured_

_Straight to you for I am captured one more time_

 

_—Josh Groban, “Straight To You”_

 

* * *

 

_I’ve messed up big time, haven’t I?_

Clara’s mouth felt so dry she could hardly swallow as she glanced back and forth between the Doctor, Ashildr, Rigsy, and the two Janus women huddled on the staircase of the warm wooden house on Trap Street. A horrible, heavy silence broken only by the Doctor’s heavy, panicked breathing had fallen—a welcome relief after his wild, threatening rant a few moments ago. His words still throbbed in Clara’s ears like some awful foreboding drumbeat. 

     _“You will save Clara, and you will do it now, or I will rain hell on you for the rest of time! The Doctor is no longer here! You are stuck with_ me _. And I will end you, and everything you love—”_

She shuddered to think what else he might’ve said or how far he would’ve gone if she hadn’t begged him to just listen to himself. She’d done a lot of that sort of thing over the past five minutes: she’d pleaded with _him_ to stop threatening Ashildr and she’d just ordered Rigsy to shut up, too. She didn’t need either of them to blame themselves for what had happened. They were _innocent_ , they’d had nothing to do with…with..

     _With my own stupid, careless, cocksure choices. Oh Doctor, I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…and yet I’d do it a million times over for Rigsy. Baby Lucy shouldn’t have to grow up without her daddy. If I can spare even one child that pain, I would—and so would you, Doctor. So would you._

The Raven screamed a third time. Everyone either stiffened or drew sharp, frightened breaths. It was definitely getting closer. Clara looked at the Doctor. He looked back at her, his blue-grey eyes hard and his jaw tight with the sheer effort of trying to hold his emotions in check. 

     “ _You_ ,” she whispered, taking a bold, firm step closer so she had to tilt her head back to look at him. “You listen to me. You’re gonna be alone now, and you’re very bad at that. You’re going to be furious and you’re going to be sad, but listen to me: _don’t let this change you._ ”

     The Doctor’s eyes skittered to the side and started to glisten. He opened his mouth but she cut him off and grabbed his wrist.

     “No, _listen_. Whatever happens next, wherever she’s sending you, _I_ know what you’re capable of. You don’t be a Warrior. Promise me. Be a Doctor.”

     He dragged his gaze back to her. “What’s the point of being a Doctor if I can’t cure you?”

     “Heal yourself. You _have_ to. You _can’t_ let this turn you into a monster! I’m not askin’ you for a promise—I’m givin’ you an order. You will _not_ insult my memory. There will be no revenge. I will die and no one else, here or anywhere, will suffer—do you understand me?”

     He hesitated, dropped his voice to a whisper. “What about me?”

     Clara gulped hard and blinked harder at the small, childlike question. “If there was somethin’ I could do about that, I would. I guess we’re both just gonna have to be brave.”

He tried to nod—tried to be brave—even tried to smile—and failed miserably. His face twisted and tightened and the raw grief broke through like water out of a dam. “ _Clara…_ ”

     She wasn’t sure who reached out first, but the next thing she knew he held her close while she stood on tiptoe with her arms tight around his neck. Hot, stinging tears filled her eyes as she ran her fingers through the thick, darker curls at the back of his head and tried to breathe him in one last time. She didn’t care what Rigsy or Ashildr saw or heard—she would’ve kissed him senseless if she could have it her way—but she’d lived with him and loved him long enough to know that that would only break him now and _oh dear God in Heaven, anything but that_.  

     No, she needed him to be strong—for her as well as for himself. She needed him to remember all the times they’d both been heroes. Outsmarting the Teller at the Bank of Karabraxos, defying the Sheriff of Nottingham, outsmarting Davros and the Daleks, fighting pirates in the Carribean, defeating the Mire, cornering the Zygons into surrender. She’d walked straight into all those perilous situations with her head held high, determined to die right if it came to that. 

     Why should this be any different? She hadn’t seen it coming, but that didn’t rob her death of meaning. She’d die for who she loved—just like Danny, and just like the Doctor.   

     _I love you_ , she thought as hard as she could, hoping he could sense it through either her touch or the mental and emotional connection they’d always had. Each of them always knew what the other was thinking; it’d been like that from the start. _You know I love you, and I’ve never loved anyone like I’ve loved you, and no matter what you’re about to face without me you’ve gotta remember that._  

     His arms tightened around her. She sniffled, pressed herself closer and harder against him. 

     “Everything you’re about to say, I already know,” she whispered in his ear. “Don’t say it now, not here. I know, I promise I know...”

     The Raven shrieked and Ashildr jumped. It was in the street now, no doubt about it. Clara tore away from the Doctor and clutched his hand. She tried to swallow, take a deep breath. The Doctor rubbed the top of her hand with his thumb. 

     “Don't run,” he murmured. “Stay with me.”

     Clara shook her head. “Nah. You stay here. In the end, everybody does this alone.”

     “Clara—” 

     “This is as brave as I know how to be.” _I don’t want to leave, I’m scared, I’m getting scared, I want to stay with you but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t let you see me die…oh Doctor, I love you, I love you, please don’t change…_ “I know it’s going to hurt you, but please…be a little proud of me?”

     At her request the brokenness in him seemed to shift: the look on his face changed from utterly desperate to something far gentler and far more loving. Clara released another relieved, shivery breath. He wouldn’t have let himself look at her like that if he hadn’t just given up. He wouldn’t try to stop her or throw himself in front of the Raven or do anything stupid and pointless like that. 

     He would let her die in the name of mercy and grace, kindness and compassion.

     _Because whether you like it or not, Doctor, I’m going to do this just like you would._

She reached out and cupped his cheek in her palm. His eyes softened, brimmed, and the most tender smile she’d ever seen crept over his face as he reached up and took her hand, pulling it away from his cheek and pressing his lips instead to her curved fingers. He closed his eyes for half a moment before opening them again and fixing his gaze intently on hers. 

     Her breath caught. For the millionth time since Christmas she heard what he meant in all the things he left unsaid. 

     “Goodbye, Doctor,” she breathed. And just like that she tore herself away to face the Raven. 

 

* * *

 

As soon as Clara stepped outside the Doctor felt sick to his stomach. Some frantic, terrified part of him scrambled through hundreds of calculations, plans, and strategies, all of them frenzied failures from the start. He wanted nothing more than to run after her, snatch her behind him, and let the Raven take him instead. 

     _Would that even work, though? It’s locked onto her. It might go right through me and still take her. Oh Clara, I can’t save you this time, I_ can’t…

     He took a long step towards the door. Ashildr took a smaller, much more hesitant step towards him. 

     “Doctor—”

     “ _Don’t you dare!_ ” he hissed, turning on her. Ashildr went white and staggered back. The Doctor seized the doorknob, opened it quietly so Clara wouldn’t hear the hinges creak, and stepped out into Trap Street. 

     Clara stood straight and tall and resolute on the cobblestones. Only her fingertips, rubbing her palms in quick, fidgety motions, let him know just how frightened she was. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and held her head high. In the silence broken only by the murmurs of a few terrified spectators and the oncoming flutter of wings, he heard her murmuring four words over and over again. 

     “Let me be brave. Let me be brave.”

The Raven swooped towards her. Clara extended her arms, crucifixion-like. 

     “Let me be brave…” 

     The Raven shot right through her with caw and a flash of light. Clara gasped, arched her back. The Doctor dug his nails into his palms as hard and as deep as he could…

     And she screamed. Just when he thought it was all over, she screamed—and it was worse, far worse, than if she had just gone out like a light. 

     Whatever happened to him after this, wherever Ashildr was sending him, he was gonna hear his beautiful Clara’s raw, agonized scream over and over again—and it was gonna torture him and drive him to do whatever the hell it took to get her back. 

     She collapsed like a rag doll, the black vapor of the satisfied Shade pouring out of her mouth. Not until she hit the cobblestones did he dare get closer. Mercifully, her eyes were shut, but her legs were bent at awkward, crooked angles. _One more step…and another…left…right…_

His knees hit the ground with a thud. He tried to breathe, tried to choke out her name; he even cupped her head in his hands and turned her face towards him—but Clara lay perfectly still. No fluttering eyelashes, no sleepy sigh, no little squeeze of his hand…nothing.  

_Oh Clara._

     He slipped an arm underneath her shoulders, the other beneath her twisted legs, and lifted her off the cold ground. He never remembered the walk back into the house. Never noticed Ashildr crying in the corner with her back to him, or Rigsy’s attempt to reach out a sympathetic hand. He just carried Clara into a side room and lowered her onto the bed he found there. He smoothed her hair, brushed a bit of street litter off her grey sweater, ran the backs of his fingers along her cheek. He reached for her hand. She hadn’t been gone long enough for her skin to go cold yet.

     “Oh Clara,” he whispered. “My Clara. Always brave, always funny…always _exactly_ what I need.”

     He screwed his burning eyes shut and kissed her slender hand just as the teleport bracelet on his arm beeped. He pulled in a shuddering breath, forced his eyes open. _They_ were coming, whoever they were (or more accurately, he was going to _them_ )—but the thought of that happening here where she lay, in her sacred presence—that was simply abhorrent. He swallowed hard and stroked her hair back from her forehead.

     “Goodbye, my Impossible Girl,” he whispered. He bent low over her, pressed his lips to hers one last time, and wrenched himself away. 

     When he shut the bedroom door behind him, he found Rigsy and Ashildr waiting for him. 

     “I’m sorry, Doctor,” Ashildr murmured, her dark eyes huge and sad. “I truly am.”

     The Doctor clenched his teeth as she stepped up to the stasis chamber where the Janus mother had been trapped. She pressed a button; when it chimed the bracelet on his arm beeped in response. 

     “What Clara said about not taking revenge,” he growled. “Do you know why she said that?”

     Ashildr gulped. “She was saving you—” 

     “I was lost a long time ago. She was saving _you_. I’ll do my best, but I strongly advise you to keep out of my way. You’ll find that it’s a very small universe when I’m angry with you.”

     Ashildr turned white and looked away. The Doctor squared his shoulders and threw his head back as the tingle of dematerialization started at his fingertips, and the warm wooden house on Trap Street vanished from his sight. 

 

* * *

 

The Doctor’s teleport bracelet clanged to the floor. Ashildr squeezed her eyes shut and shivered. 

     “What now?” 

     Rigsy’s voice startled her. She opened her eyes and turned to find him looking so shaken, she was afraid he might faint on her right then and there. She drew a long, heavy breath and rubbed her arms. 

     “Well…we can’t just leave her here,” she whispered. “I don’t suppose she had any family?”

     “I—I don’t know.”

     The young immortal bit her lip, brooding over this latest difficulty—what to do with the body of Clara Oswald—when the air suddenly shivered and the glow of another, larger teleportation startled her so badly that she leaped backwards with a cry. Rigsy yelped and Anahson, the young Janus girl, sprang to her feet as nine figures—seven in armor, two in what looked like medical robes, and one in a massive ceremonial collar—materialized in the suddenly-much-smaller room. 

     Ashildr’s stomach churned so violently, she was afraid she might be sick on the floor. 

     “I—I—” she stammered. 

     “ _Hurry_ ,” the old man in the collar snapped to the two female medics. They nodded and rushed into the bedroom. Ashildr stretched out a hand towards him, only to cry out in alarm as the soldiers advanced on Rigsy and the two Janus women. 

     “Stop!” she cried. “No—don’t lay a finger on _any_ of them! They’re under my protection—!”

     “Like you promised to keep Clara Oswald under yours?” the old man in the collar hissed. 

     Ashildr’s mouth fell open; she pointed a shaking finger at him. “That was _not_ my fault! I never expected her to do something like that! I thought—”

     “You _thought_?!” he roared, looming over her with such murderous rage that it made the Doctor’s fury look like mere irritation in comparison. “Let me tell you what _I_ thought, Lady Me. I thought we made a deal to capture the Doctor quickly and quietly. No fuss, no bother— _and no one dead_ , not even the boy. Instead, you let the one other person I needed alive and unharmed take a Quantum Shade upon herself!”

     “And how was I supposed to stop her?!” Ashildr screamed, tears springing into her eyes. “She was just like him! She _always_ was! Running headlong to danger, sacrificing herself for others, _protecting!_ If she hadn’t done it herself the Doctor probably would have—and then where would you be?! Would you blame me for that, too?!”

     One of the medics—a tall, big-boned woman with white hair—burst out of the bedroom. The old man turned from Ashildr. 

     “Is she alive?” he demanded.

     The woman nodded, a little breathless. “A small dose of regeneration energy. That’s all it takes for a human.”

     “Clara’s alive?” Rigsy cried, hurrying forward—but before he could get to the door the leader of the soldiers, an older, baldheaded man with a sad, gentle face, quietly zapped him with a tiny device. Ashildr screamed again as the young man crumpled. The device buzzed again and the Janus women collapsed on the stairs.  

     “ _No!_ ” Ashildr sobbed, fighting as two of the soldiers grabbed her and held her back.

     “We have no choice,” the General pleaded. “It’s all right, they’ll wake up in a few hours, their memories clear of this entire incident. We’ve no wish to harm you or any of the people under your care.”

     “But we _do_ need answers,” the old man in the collar said sharply, snatching the Doctor’s confession dial off the mantlepiece where Ashildr had set it a few minutes ago. “ _This_ will provide most of what we need. The girl will supply the rest. I suppose you _did_ manage to keep your end of the bargain, Lady Me, in spite of your appalling carelessness…”

     “You never said _anything_ to me about Clara Oswald,” Ashildr hissed. “If you had wanted her too then you should’ve said so! But you know what? I know you who are, and I know what you’re capable of…and if I’m such a disappointment to you, I wish you’d just put me out of my misery.”

     He tapped the confession dial against his palm. “You want me to kill you?”

     “You might as well. The Doctor will never going to forgive me for what happened here today, and when he escapes from your clutches—because I _know_ he will and so do _you_ —I might as well be dead. But seeing as how he made it so _that_ won’t happen without some major interference, I’d be obliged if you’d do me the favor.”

     The old man pursed his lips. Ashildr held her breath, praying harder than she’d prayed in centuries that his infamous coldblooded streak would rise to the occasion. One quick, clean, merciful shot, and it’d be all over for her. _Finally._

She barely had time to realize what was really happening when he snatched the memory-wipe device from the General’s hand and aimed it at her head. Ashildr crumpled in the soldiers’ grasp.

     “Death would be too bearable a punishment for your negligence,” Rassilon muttered, handing the device back to the General. “Prepare your men for our return to Gallifrey—and inform the medics to see that Clara Oswald is ready as well.”

     “You really think the Doctor will confess what he knows?” the General asked worriedly.

     “About the Hybrid?” Rassilon smirked and slipped the confession dial into a hidden pocket deep within his robes. “Oh yes. I think the Doctor will find he has no choice.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...(*dun dun*)
> 
> EDIT: I just realized that in the original posting of this chapter, I'd called Rigsy's baby "Jennifer" instead of "Lucy." Sorry. Fixed now. Rigsy's daughter is named Lucy and her mom's name is Jen...but get this. In "The Return of Doctor Mysterio" the featured baby is named Jennifer...but HER mom's name is Lucy. Coincidence? Who knows, when you're dealing with Moffat?


	12. The Raven Defeated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor is trapped in the confession dial and Clara wakes up on Gallifrey...but not before one of the medics who saved her life makes a startling and potentially dangerous discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I usually post on the weekend but I have a memorial service to attend on Saturday morning--so here's a new chapter a few days early!

_You're my back bone._

_You're my cornerstone_

_You're my crutch when my legs stop moving._

_You're my head start_

_You're my rugged heart_

_You're the pulse that I've always needed_

 

_Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating_

_Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating_

_Like a drum, baby, don't stop beating_

_Like a drum my heart never stops beating for you_

 

_—Phillip Phillips, “Gone, Gone, Gone”_

* * *

 

_Inside the Doctor’s confession dial…_

 

“Come on, Teacher—ask me questions!” 

     It’s the five hundred and third time I make the half-playful, half-desperate demand, and immediately I see her answer scrawled on the TARDIS blackboard: _Tell no lies._

Ah, you know me too well, my darling girl. You know the Doctor lies—but not to you. I don’t lie to you, Clara, not anymore. You know me too well—you never let me get away with even the teensiest falsehood these days. And besides, I’m pretty sure it’s harder for me to lie with _this_ face than it was with the old one. You’re always tellin’ me I’m a terrible actor. 

     You can see right through me, can’t you, my Impossible Girl?

“Fine. I’ll tell you the truth, Clara. I’m actually scared of dying.”

     The chalk squeaks. _Question 2: What did you say that made the creature stop?_

“The truth, yes. But not any old truth, Clara. This whole place is designed to terrify me. I’m being interrogated. It’s not just truth it wants. That's not enough. It’s _confession_. I have to tell truths I’ve never told before. That’s the only thing that stops it. You see…the problem is, Clara, there are truths that I can never tell. Not for anything. But I’m scared and I’m alone. Alone, and very, very scared…”

     I confess. 

     And I confess again 

     _and again_

 _and again_  

     and it’s never satisfied 

     and it’s never enough. 

     I’m following breadcrumbs laid out for me. This is somebody’s game, and I can’t stop playing a game everybody else has lost. I know how to move that wall, Clara, so long as I don't run out of confessions. But what I really want to know is: 

_Who's been playin’ about with the stars?_

     If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’ve travelled a little over five hundred years into the future. 

     But I do know better. 

     So who moved the stars? 

 

* * *

 

_Gallifrey, somewhere at the end of the Space-Time Continuum_

_Twenty minutes since teleportation from Trap Street_

 

Jodharaggadiar had worked in the Citadel Hospital ever since those first chaotic years after the Last Great Time War, but she had never found herself in a situation quite like this. She’d certainly never worked with a human before. 

     _We must’ve had human patients on Gallifrey before this, though. There are records—and we already know so much about their physiology. Someone_ must _have done all the necessary research._

Of course, even if the Hospital _had_ housed a human patient at some point, Jodha had a sneaky suspicion that _that_ human patient hadn’t been a person of obsessive interest to Lord Rassilon. The sight of him and every single member of the High Council crowding the doorway of her examination room was enough to make her want to throw something at their heads. Didn’t they have any concept of personal privacy?! This poor human girl had just returned from the brink of death and all they could do was gawp?   

     _Careful, Jodha. You don’t need any unnecessary attention thrown in_ your _direction…not now, not ever._

“Andia,” she murmured. Her much younger assistant drew closer. “We need to administer the immune system suppressant so her body doesn’t reject the regeneration energy, but I don’t want to do that without changing her into some clean clothes and making sure we’re not bringing any Earth contaminants in here.”

     “What do you want me to do?” Andia whispered. 

     “Start prepping her for decontamination. I’ll deal with our…guests.”

     Andia’s sharp, delicate features quirked in a knowing little smile that she quickly hid beneath a surgical mask. Jodha tucked her own time-whitened hair behind her ears, snapped on a pair of gloves, and with a quick sharp breath turned to face the men and women in the doorway. 

     “My lords and ladies,” she said, injecting as much authority into her voice as she could, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. We’re about to start the decontamination process and, hopefully, finish stabilizing Miss Oswald’s condition. However, we will need privacy—for her sake as well as for ours.”

     “How long until she’s awake?” Lord Rassilon demanded. 

     Jodha inhaled. “She will likely go through her own version of regeneration sickness. I’d give her twelve hours at least before she’s coherent—and even then, she’ll be physically exhaus—”

     “I need her walking and talking as soon as possible,” Rassilon snapped. “She has information that we need—information _critical_ to Gallifrey’s future survival!”

     “Well, I’m sorry, my lord, but I don’t think she’ll be any condition—physically or mentally—to be interrogated by the High Council for at least a week.” Jodha paused, raised an eyebrow. “Surely Gallifrey isn’t in _that_ much danger, now that we’re at the end of all of space and time.”

     The barb went home: Rassilon stiffened and turned an unflattering shade of red. Jodha met his gaze, cold and steady. She had lived through nine regenerations, seen civilizations rise and fall, and in more than one of her forms defied tyrants a-plenty—and she would _not_ be cowed by any man ever again.  

     Certainly not _this_ one.

     “Fine,” Rassilon spat, turning on his heel; the Councillors quickly stepped back to make room for him and his enormous Prydonian collar. “But you will provide me with hourly updates on her condition, and report back anything she says. Understood?”

     “Understood. Have a pleasant evening, Lord President.”

     He growled something under his breath and stormed away, his entourage scurrying after him like a clutch of baby chicks on the farm where she’d grown up ages ago at the foot of Mount Lung. Jodha snorted at the imagery and closed the examination room doors behind her. 

     “Right,” she called, her voice crisp but low. “How are our life signs?”

     “Heartbeat holding steady,” Andia murmured. As soon as Jodha closed the doors she’d started cutting away the human female’s strange clothes. “Her blood pressure’s a little low but still within expected levels after the energy dose.”

     Jodha grabbed another scanner and passed it over Clara Oswald’s head. The girl slept soundly —a relief after she’d bolted upright in that Earth bed in response to the energy transmitter on her chest. She’d pulled in a grating breath and opened her eyes just long enough for Jodha to see how large and dark they really were before she lost consciousness and fell back against the pillows. 

     _Now if I can just keep you alive, that would be fantastic. You fight hard, young woman…fight with everything in you. We need you more than you think—and not in the way Rassilon expects, either._

“Brain waves normal,” Jodha murmured. “No signs of cerebral damage or even any irritation from the regeneration, thank goodness.”

     “I’m getting some on the cellular level, though,” Andia said, typing commands into the monitor. “And the heart rate’s going…up…”

     Her voice trailed off. Jodha glanced at her, saw her assistant’s face wrinkling in confusion. 

     “What?” Jodha demanded. “What’s wrong?”

     Andia frowned. “Listen.”

     Jodha did. The human’s heartbeat was loud and strong enough, but there _was_ something off about it. Something…unbalanced. She snapped her fingers and Andia passed her a handheld heart monitor. Jodha muted the biobed’s built-in monitor and rested the smaller, more basic one against Clara Oswald’s chest. 

     “I don’t hear it now,” she muttered. “A fluke, perhaps?”

     “Or a heart murmur only the stronger monitor can detect?” Andia suggested. 

     Jodha frowned. She tested the biobed’s monitor again. The strange, unbalanced echo persisted and it didn’t sound like a heart murmur. She flicked the monitor off a second time…and then it hit her. 

     “Oh.”

     “ ‘Oh?’ ” Andia repeated. “ ‘Oh’ what?”

     Jodha bit her lip. She moved further down the bed, held her breath, and set the handheld monitor not against Clara Oswald’s chest, but against her lower abdomen. 

     The thud of two hearts was so deafening, she snatched the device away and clutched it against her own chest. Andia’s eyes widened to saucer-size. 

     “Ohhhhh, Jodha…” 

     “Hush.” Jodha moved back to the biobed monitor and began typing information into its computer. “About six weeks gestation…normal size for this stage of the first trimester…”

     “How many babies?” Andia whispered. 

     Jodha swallowed. “Just the one.”

     “But…but there are two heartbeats—”

     “Oh, don’t be thick, Andia!” 

     The younger Gallifreyan blinked, stared at the human’s sleeping face, and gulped so hard that Jodha could hear it. Jodha ignored her and grabbed a needle and syringe, filling it with immune system suppressant. 

     “What are we going to do?” Andia whispered. 

     “Exactly what we would’ve done in the first place,” Jodha replied, sliding the needle into the human’s arm. “Care for our patient, and then make sure Romana knows what’s happened to the Doctor.”

     “And what about the…the little one?”

     “We’ll tell Romana about that, too. We have no choice.” Jodha looked the younger woman in the eye. “But we don’t breathe a word about this to you-know-who. He’s so paranoid, he’ll probably assume that _it’s_ the Hybrid and do Time knows what to it or her. Understood?”

     Andia nodded meekly. “Understood.”

 

* * *

 

 _Consciousness._ It was like a lazy tidal wave on an even lazier summer afternoon at the beach. _In …and out. In…and out._

     When the tide was in Clara heard voices. Kind, careful voices. She smelled the antiseptic edge of a sterile room. Felt soft sheets beneath her palms and atop her body. Saw through her fluttering eyelids a light shining straight on her. Tasted something metallic, something…familiar. 

     _Smelled it…once…long ago…I think…?_

She never could figure out that last mystery before the wave sent her back out to sea, just as it always did. She decided she was too tired to fight it, so she just sighed, sank into it, and let the wave take her straight to—

 _Danny?_  

     Huh. 

     She sat on a bench in the very same park where they always used to meet, and he was walking towards her with a sad, somber look on his handsome face. When he sat down beside her he clasped his hands between his knees and looked her in the eye. 

     “You can’t come yet, Clara,” he said firmly. 

     She frowned, sat up very straight. “I’ve _got_ to. I made a deal, Danny, just like you did. A life for a life. And besides, I’m so tired…”

     “Doesn’t matter. You _can’t_ come yet. There’s still too much for you to do, y’know. And who’s gonna look after that daft old man if you don’t?”

     “Who indeed?” another voice asked behind her. Clara whirled. There _he_ was, dressed in that blessed old hoodie with the sweater and two t-shirts underneath and his slender hands in his pockets, a breeze stirring his silver curls and a wry smirk on his weathered Scottish face. Clara forced herself not to smile and looked at him as sternly as she could instead. 

     “I can’t stay. You _know_ I can’t.”

     “Do I?” the Doctor asked.

     “Stop answerin’ everything I say with a question! The Raven needed a soul and it got mine! I can’t walk out of that now!” 

     He tilted his head down and looked hard at her beneath contracting eyebrows. “C’mere, then.”

     Clara frowned, glanced back over her shoulder at Danny—but he had disappeared. She turned back to the Doctor; he jerked his head to one side, half-impatient, half-inviting. Slowly she got up and stepped towards him, realizing with an embarrassed flush that she wore nothing but a thin hospital gown…in the middle of a public park…

“You’re dreaming, Clara,” the Doctor murmured, pressing his fingertips to her temple. 

     “No I’m not,” she whispered. “I’m dead. I’m dead and gone—you’ve got to accept that.”

     He smiled, began weaving his long, slender fingers into her hair; in spite of herself she leaned into his palm and closed her eyes. When he slid his other arm around her waist and pulled her close she gasped, felt a hard stutter in her chest—and opened her eyes with a start. The Doctor raised his eyebrows. 

     “There now,” he whispered. “Nice to know I still have that kind of effect on you.”

     “W-what effect?” Clara stammered. 

     “Ah, simple biological fact, Clara. Your heart couldn’t skip a beat if you were dead, could it?”

     Her mouth fell open—and suddenly she could hear, in the background, the quickening beep of a heart monitor. The Doctor’s smile deepened into his eyes. 

     “Wake up, Clara.”

     “Will you be there when I do?” she pleaded. 

     He tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned so close, she smelled the Time Vortex on him. 

     “I love you,” he whispered. “Run, you clever, beautiful girl…”

     _And remember me._

“Miss Oswald?”

     Clara forced one eye open, then the other. At first she saw nothing but a white blur, but then it cleared and she found herself looking up into the strong, square face of a white-haired woman in white robes, surrounded by white walls and blinding light. Clara winced; the woman reached out, adjusting a nearby dial. The light dimmed and Clara sighed in relief.

     “Better?” the woman asked gently. 

     “Mm-hmm.” Her throat felt dry and raw as she tried to clear it. The woman had obviously an-ticipated her needs: she reached out again and came back with a glass of water, lifting Clara’s head off the pillow and letting her drink as much as she wanted. When Clara laid her head back again the woman stroked her hair with such strange tenderness that Clara instinctively turned her head towards the motherly hand. 

     “Once you’re more alert we’ll try getting some broth into you,” the woman murmured. “How do you feel?”

     Clara tried to adjust her position and winced as a sharp pain shot through her lower chest and diaphragm, right where the Raven had flown into her. “Sore. Really, really sore…”

     “Well, that’s not surprising. It’ll go away in a few days, I promise.”

     Clara gulped. “But I… _I died._ ”

     “Yes, you did.”

     “Then…how…”

     “Regeneration energy. We reached you before ten minutes had passed—time enough for us to work with your remaining brain activity and restart your heart.”

     Clara felt her eyes widen. “Regeneration energy…”

     The woman nodded, went back to stroking her hair. “You’re on Gallifrey, Miss Oswald—shh shh shh, it’s all right,” she urged as the heart monitor started beeping faster again. “You’re perfectly safe. With me, anyway.”

     “No,” Clara choked. “Gallifrey’s gone…it’s in a…a…a pocket universe…”

     “Not anymore. We found a way out of it—but that’s a long story for another day when you’re stronger and your mind’s clear enough to listen to the whole of it. Right now I want you to try and go back to sleep—”

     “How long have I been here?” Clara rasped.  

     The woman sighed. “We returned to Gallifrey a day ago. You slept twice as long as I thought you might. That's all right, though. You needed the rest.”

     Clara nodded, still very confused and more than a little panicked, but trying to stay as calm as she possibly could. The woman adjusted her blankets and dimmed the lights even further, but before she could step too far away from the bed Clara stretched out a shaky hand and brushed the woman’s strong fingers. The woman immediately returned to her side. 

     “Yes, dear?” she whispered. 

     Clara swallowed down the lump in her throat and forced herself to look the woman in the eye. “ _Why_?”

     “President Rassilon believes you have important information. He'll want to talk to you eventually, I'm sure--but he won't darken the door of this room until you're ready for him, I promise.”

     _Rassilon?_ Clara frowned. She knew the name well; the Doctor had told her about him several times, always with a dark, brooding look in his eyes. It was Rassilon’s fault, apparently, that Missy had gone mad…and his fault, too, that the Last Great Time War had even happened. 

_What information could she possibly have that he'd need so badly?_

     “Is the Doctor here?” Clara whispered. 

     The woman hesitated, shooting a cautious glance at the door. When she spoke, she sounded as if the answer hurt. 

     “No, he isn’t here. But believe me…we all wish he were.”

 

* * *

 

When Clara woke again several hours later she felt much better. The woman was still there. She smiled, put away the medical tools she’d been organizing, and stroked Clara’s hand. 

     “How are we feeling now?” she asked. 

     Clara smiled weakly. “Starving.”

     “That’s a good sign. Let’s see about that broth. I’ll even reward you with a few crackers if you can keep it down.”

     Clara _could_ keep it down, and was carefully nibbling her fourth cracker when the door opened and a younger nurse with ebony skin and a black braid hanging over her shoulder poked her head into the room. She smiled shyly when she saw Clara sitting up and turned to the older woman. 

     “Jodha, the High Council demands an update. Shall I tell them she’s awake and eating?”

     Jodha—the older woman’s name, obviously—frowned. “I suppose we have no choice. But for the love of Time, Andia, stress that she _isn’t_ ready to see anyone yet. She needs a few more days, all right?”

     Andia nodded and ducked out of the room. Clara swallowed the last of the cracker, studied the mixture of irritation and concern on Jodha’s strong, almost masculine features, and folded her tired hands in her lap.

     “You said Rassilon wants information,” she said. “Is that why they’re askin’ about me? They want to interrogate me?”

     Jodha started cleaning up the dinner tray. She didn’t look at Clara. “I’m afraid so.”

     “They want to know somethin' about the Doctor, don’t they?”

     Jodha seemed to be deliberately avoiding eye contact now. “You traveled with him. I suppose that makes you their best source of information—”

     “Then I’m not saying a word about him. Certainly not before they tell me what they’ve done with him.”

     Jodha glanced up at _that_. As weak and tired as she still felt, Clara raised her eyebrows as defiantly as she could. Jodha pursed her lips, sighed, and sat down on the edge of the bed. 

     “I doubt that will go over well with the High Council,” she murmured.

     “I don’t care,” Clara retorted. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist from your high-and-mighty Academy to figure out that Rassilon himself blackmailed the Mayor of Trap Street into puttin’ the chronolock on my friend—the chronolock _I_ took on myself so my friend’s baby wouldn’t grow up without a father. Right so far?”

     Jodha kneaded her hands. “I am just a mere medic, Miss Oswald—”

     “But you were _there_. And you know more than you’re telling me.” Clara paused. “Sorry, Jodha. I’ve traveled with the Doctor too long—I know when a Gallifreyan’s tryin’ to pull the wool over my eyes.”

     At that, Jodha started to smile…a little. Clara leaned back against her pillows and waited. The woman glanced over her shoulder at the closed door, then turned back to Clara and touched her much smaller hand. 

     “As I understand it, Rassilon did not count on _you_ taking the death sentence for your friend,” Jodha whispered. “He intended only to capture the Doctor and bring _you_ along for information, but your sacrifice forced him to intervene. Make no mistake about it: his ordering the use of regeneration energy on a human was unprecedented. Barring anymore accidents, you’ll likely find yourself with a bit of an augmented lifespan.”

     Clara blinked and nodded again. _Augmented…like River Song?_ “I see…”

     “Rassilon is a paranoid old tyrant,” Jodha continued bitterly, “and has only gotten worse since the Doctor saved Gallifrey at the end of the Last Great Time War. I think he’s jealous that his greatest rival for the people’s love and loyalty proved our ultimate salvation rather than him. I think…I think he’s trying to prove, somehow, that the Doctor is our enemy.”

     “Well, I think I can debunk that one in a shot,” Clara muttered. 

     “But it may not matter,” Jodha insisted, squeezing her hand firmly. “No matter what you say, Rassilon will twist it for his own purposes. He has already decided that you and the Doctor are his enemies, and he will do anything to ruin you in the eyes of our people. Trust me—I’ve seen him do it. Far, far too many times…”

     Her voice trailed off and a look of profound sadness crossed her strong features. Clara’s chest tugged in sympathy…and curiosity. 

     “I don’t think you’re ‘just a mere medic,’ Jodha,” she murmured. The woman lifted her head and Clara smiled gently. “You seem to know a great deal about Rassilon and what he’s thinkin’. There’s still somethin’ you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

     Jodha drew a breath and withdrew her hand—but the look on her face had changed into something half-mysterious and half-mischievous. “Ah, well…perhaps you’ll find out eventually. But come now, you should try and nap again. Sleep is the best cure for regeneration sickness…”

     “One more question?” Clara asked, scooting back underneath the blankets. 

     “One more. If it’s about the Doctor’s whereabouts, I truly don’t know the answer to that.”

     Clara shook her head. “No, it’s not that. It’s just…I thought a Quantum Shade ‘stole your soul.’ ”

     Jodha snorted. “Technically not a question. Are you asking me why you’re even alive?”

     “Yeah, I suppose so…”

     Jodha nodded, tucked the blankets closer around Clara. “That’s just an old wives’ tale. Probably started during the Dark Times. Honestly, I’m surprised it’s still being told. The Shade can’t steal your soul—that’s impossible—but it does, apparently, cause the severest pain in the known universe when it strikes. You died of shock, Miss Oswald. Nothing more.”

     Clara nodded thoughtfully and settled back. She really did feel sleepy again—a warm, pleasant sort of sleepiness that surprised her, considering their unsettling conversation and her looming confrontation with Rassilon himself. Jodha leaned over her and ran the backs of her fingers along Clara’s cheek…and Clara frowned, suddenly feeling as if she should know this woman. 

     There was just something so… _familiar_ about her.

     “You clearly have a strong, brave soul,” Jodha whispered. “Even if the Shade had wanted to steal it, I don’t think it could’ve succeeded.” She smiled as Clara’s eyelids drooped. “Sleep in peace, and know that Gallifrey thanks you.”

     “For what?” Clara mumbled. 

     Jodha stroked her hair one last time before turning out the lights. “For being with him.” 

 

* * *

 

_Inside the confession dial…_

 

I emerge from the teleport chamber for the nine hundred and eighty-first time. I catch my breath, glance around, take note of the words scrawled in the sand and the stone walls on either side. I take a handful of the sand and let it pour through my fingers. The memory of a black, shrieking bird ripping through my Clara tears through my mind, as clear and vivid as if it just happened.

     Maybe it did. Maybe it _did_ just happen. Maybe it was only…minutes ago. Days? Weeks?

     Or almost a thousand years?  

     I lift my head and glare at the ceiling, and I feel the storm coming on.  

     “If you think because she is dead and I am weak, then you understand very little. If you were any part of killing her and you’re not afraid, then you understand nothing at all. So, for your own sake, understand this: _I am the Doctor_. I’m coming to find you, and I will never, ever stop.”

     And with that, the cycle begins all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #HybridBabyOnBoard #betyoudidntseethatonecoming #staytuned


	13. Heaven Sent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rassilon and the High Council interrogate Clara, and she learns several very important pieces of information.

_My dearly beloved,_

_Be strong, I shall be there_

_Always here beside you_

_So keep your head held high_

_The shadows of this world_

_Will try to steal you away into their arms_

_But you belong in mine_

 

_—Kingdom Hearts, “Dearly Beloved”_

* * *

 

_The Citadael, Gallifrey_

_Twelve days since Trap Street_

 

Clara stood before the narrow mirror and did up the last button on the blue, long-sleeved blouse Jodha had brought for her. She looked a bit pale and her stomach had been doing all manner of weird things ever since she woke up this morning—although, to be fair, it had been doing that for the past five days—but at least she could say with confidence that she didn’t _look_ too scared. 

     In fact, she simply looked the part of a normal Gallifreyan citizen on her way to a meeting she wasn’t particularly thrilled about. 

     “It’s funny,” she said as Jodha came into her peripheral vision, “but these are _exactly_ the sort of clothes that humans used to wear, all the way down to the petticoats. ‘Cept _you_ don’t have corsets. Points for Gallifrey.”

     Jodha smirked. “That blue suits you.”

     _The color of the TARDIS._ Clara’s breath hitched a little at the thought of the Old Girl stranded and alone somewhere in the middle of London. She avoided making eye contact with her own reflection as she smoothed the blouse and the wide, heavy skirts and tucked her hair behind her ears.  

     “Did you hold down your breakfast?” Jodha asked. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here to attend you this morning—we had an emergency down the hall.”

     “Yeah, I finally did. Felt a bit queasy at first, but whatever Andia gave me helped. When’s that gonna wear off, anyway? I feel so much better otherwise.”

     Jodha shrugged. “Oh, perhaps a few more weeks. The Gallifreyan regeneration energy is still repairing and restoring your cells. It will take your human body some time to adjust.”

     Clara snorted. “I’d like to adjust in a slightly more pleasant way than throwing up my breakfast every morning, thank you very much.”

     Jodha forced a weak smile before glancing at the two soldiers waiting outside the door. They arrived early this morning before Clara even woke up. Rassilon clearly had no intentions of waiting for her any longer than he had to, or of letting her out of anyone’s supervision. Jodha turned back to Clara. 

     “ _Courage_ , my friend,” she said, giving Clara’s arms a brisk rub. “And no matter what he says or demands of you, remember this: the people of Gallifrey hold you in the highest esteem as the companion of the Doctor of War—”

     “No,” Clara whispered. “He wouldn’t want to be known like that. He’s just the Doctor.”

Jodha nodded. “Of course. Still, know this: Rassilon is very much aware of the love we have for the Doctor—and trust me, they know you’re here, too. He will not dare harm a hair of your head for fear of them, so give him hell. Someone should.”

     Clara nodded, then decided to throw all caution to the wind and hugged Jodha as tight as she could. Jodha stiffened a moment before Clara felt her return the embrace.   

     “There now,” the older woman murmured. “That’s a brave girl. Chin up, shoulders back.”

     Clara opened her eyes with a start. The memory of the most hopeless day of her life when the Doctor had whispered those very same words flooded her head. _“The darkest day, the blackest hour. Let’s see what we’re made of, you and I…”_  

     She drew back, clenched her hands, threw her head back and up, and stuck her jaw forward. Jodha nodded her approval, then stepped to the side as Clara strode towards the soldiers who waited to escort her into the presence of Gallifrey’s High Council.  

 

* * *

 

She’d only glimpsed Gallifrey a few times over the past twelve days through the windows in the hospital’s winding corridors. Now, during her brief shuttlecraft ride to the Council Hall, she decided not even the Sahara back home could rival Gallifrey’s desert beauty. Skyscrapers glittered in the red sunlight. The massive glass dome made it all look like a metropolis trapped in a snowglobe. 

Her enchantment faded once the shuttlecraft shot towards the structure at the top of the dome. As soon as they were inside the building the soldiers got out, and one gave her a hand as she stepped through the hatch. Clara’s breath caught in surprise: they hadn’t simply entered the building, but the enormous councilroom itself with its rows of chairs arranged in a semi-circle and its huge windows looking out over the Citadel. 

     The Councillors, all dressed in the elaborate robes of their Houses, occupied their chairs with icy dignity. An old, balding man with a hard, bitter face sat in the middle; on his left Clara noticed a kind-faced man in armor with sad eyes; on his right, a greying woman in red who reminded her of the imperturbable little Buddha on her stepmother’s desk. She knew none of them on sight, but when the soldiers halted and stepped away from her so she stood alone and the old man smirked with brazen satisfaction, she knew, immediately, that he _had_ to be Rassilon.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “Clara Oswald. You’re the latest in the long string of the Doctor’s traveling companions, are you not?”

     Clara let the question hang a moment. “Yes.”

     “Tell me: how long have you traveled with him?”

     Clara hesitated, pulled in a breath…and held it as another question flashed through her mind: _How would the Doctor respond to that?_

_With sass, of course. Sass and a healthy dose of rebellion and obstinancy._

     “You of all people should know that that all depends on how you judge time,” she replied, her voice quiet and just a bit haughty. “If you look at _my_ calendar, it’d tell you it’s been about three years since I met the Doctor, give or take a few weeks. But that’s not even countin’ all the days I’ve spent in the Time Vortex, Victorian Yorkshire, medieval England, the Moon, not to mention a whole week in a Viking village— _so._ How long have I traveled with the Doctor? That’s a question that’s bigger on the inside, isn’t it?” 

     A few of the Councillors shifted in their seats. The woman in red smirked. 

     “Approximately three of your human years, then,” Rassilon muttered. “In all that time, did the Doctor make any mention of a creature known as the Hybrid?”

     Clara frowned. “Why would you want to know?”

     “Gallifrey’s survival may depend on it.”

     “Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

     Rassilon flushed. “We owe you neither specific details nor explanations—”

     “ _You_ brought me back from the _dead_!” Clara snapped. “You lured me and my best friend into a trap, and I _died_ , and I have _no_ idea where he is! You owe me every single blessed detail you can give me—and I’m not tellin’ you a thing until I know _exactly_ where he is and what you’ve done with him!”

     Rassilon sprang to his feet, but the woman in red grabbed his arm and yanked him back into his seat like a tantruming child. To Clara’s surprise, Rassilon didn’t fight her. He just sat there with a murderous look on his face while the woman in red turned her stern attention to Clara. 

     “The Hybrid is a crossbred creature of ancient prophecy,” she intoned, “and the High Council believes it is coming to threaten Gallifrey.”

     “Why?” Clara demanded. “Why now?”

     “The Cloister Bells began ringing three weeks ago. The Council immediately consulted the Matrix and ascertained that all the prophecies about the Hybrid have converged in its epicenter—a sign of impending danger if ever there was one.” The woman narrowed her eyes. “All the prophecies foretell the same thing, Miss Oswald. The Hybrid is a crossbreed creature that will stand in the ruins of Gallifrey, unravel the Web of Time, and destroy a billion, _billion_ hearts to heal its own.”

     “And you think the Doctor knows what this thing is?” Clara prodded. 

     “If anyone would know, it _would_ be him,” the woman replied, as if conceding a point.

     “Then why didn’t you just ask him? Why the elaborate scheme to capture us both?”

     “Because the Doctor will never give up information like that without kicking and screaming,” Rassilon snapped, rising to his feet again. “And in the event that he dragged out the extraction as long as he possibly could, _you_ would be our next and far more likely source of information—not to mention a bargaining chip.” 

     Clara narrowed her eyes. “As far as he knows, I’m dead. You have no advantage there.” 

     Rassilon snorted. He glided towards her, his robes rustling on the smooth floor. “You do have a point there. But allow me to enlighten you, Miss Oswald. This man you call ‘the Doctor’ is not the jolly, kindhearted savior of worlds you humans believe him to be. He is a man of _war_ , of strength, violence, and _cunning_. If he has known all this long time what the Hybrid is and hasn’t seen fit to tell Gallifrey’s government then he is an enemy to his own people—and no friend to you, either. Trust me, you’d be much better off telling _me_ what you know about this monster than protecting the Doctor with your silence. ”

     Clara gritted her teeth but said nothing. Rassilon must not have expected her lack of a reaction because he set his own jaw and took a quick, menacing step closer. The woman in red tensed. Clara wondered vaguely if she might be more on her side than anyone else in this room—but before she could catch the woman’s eye Rassilon lifted his arm. 

     Clara froze at the sight of a steel gauntlet fitted to his fingers, radiating with white-hot energy. 

     “I’ll ask you again, Miss Oswald,” he snarled, “did the Doctor make any mention to you of a creature known as the Hybrid?”

     The woman in red shot to her feet. So did the man in armor with the sad eyes. 

     “Lord President!” the man cried. Rassilon ignored him and brought his hand came even closer. Clara gulped, but didn’t budge.

     “Answers, Miss Oswald,” he growled, the gauntlet inches from her face.

     She drew a shaky breath and looked him in the eye. “I told you. I’m not breathin’ a _word_ until you tell me where the Doctor is—”

     The gauntlet came closer. 

     “—and if you think you can scare me into submission with that thing then you’d better think again!” Clara screamed. “How _dare_ you try and tell _me_ the Doctor isn’t kind?! How dare you suggest that he’d let this creature destroy his own people after he risked _everything_ to save the whole bloody planet from the Time War?! Oh, you think you’re so high and mighty up here, don’t you, in your pretty snowglobe with your scary glove and all the armies of Gallifrey at your beck and call, but do you know what you really are?”

     Rassilon stared at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

     “You,” Clara hissed, “are a _monster_ and a _coward._ I may not know much about the Hybrid but I do know what you did to the Master and what you tried to do with the Time Lock—and if anyone has Gallifrey’s best interests at heart it’s certainly not you. So go on. Do your worst. But know this: _I_ am the Impossible Girl, and I’ve died _thousands_ of times for the Doctor and I’ll die for him again in a heartbeat. You. Don’t. Scare. _Me_.”

     With that, Clara swatted his hand away as if it were a troublesome fly. Rassilon turned white. The Council stared in utter shock and confusion as he staggered backward and nearly tripped over the hem of his crimson robes. Only the woman in red clamped her lips, her dark eyes glittering with something like pride.

     “Take her back to the hospital,” Rassilon snarled. “ _Now!_ We’ll decide where to send her in good time.”

     “Back to Earth, _surely_ , Lord President,” the man with the sad eyes pleaded. 

     “No, General— _anywhere_ but _Earth!_ ”

     Clara’s stomach churned, but she held her head high as the soldiers led her away. No matter how they decided her fate once she was out of earshot, at least she hadn’t left them a petrified mess. 

     She could still hear Rassilon raging as the doors shut behind them. 

 

* * *

 

_In the Confession Dial…_

 

Long before the Time War, the Time Lords knew it was coming…like a storm on the wind. There were many prophecies and stories, legends before the fact. One of them was about a creature called the Hybrid. Half Dalek, half Time Lord, the ultimate warrior. 

     But whose side would it be on? 

     Would it bring peace or destruction? 

     Was it real, or a fantasy? 

     I confess, I know the Hybrid is real. I know where it is, and what it is. 

     I confess, I’m afraid. 

     I can’t keep doing this, Clara—I can’t! Why is it always me? Why is it never anybody else’s turn? Can’t I just lose? Just this once? 

     It would be easy. It would be _so_ easy. Just tell them! Just tell them, whoever wants to know, all about the Hybrid! 

     Clara, it’s just not fair! Why can’t I just lose?! 

     But I can remember, Clara. You don’t understand… _I can remember it all._ Every time. 

     And you’ll still be gone. 

     Whatever I do, you still won’t be there…

 

* * *

 

_Back on Gallifrey…_

 

Clara got worried when the soldiers did something to the shuttlecraft windows. They’d been perfectly clear before, but all of a sudden the glass turned dark and she couldn’t see anything outside. She scooted closer to the edge of her seat and tapped the shoulder of the man in the pilot’s seat. 

     “Hey. Hey, what’s going on? We’re goin’ back to the hospital, right?”

     The pilot said nothing, but the co-pilot turned in his seat. His dark eyes were honest and kind beneath his helmet. “It’s all right, Miss Oswald. We know what we’re doing.”

     Clara frowned. “Not exactly what I asked you, is it?”

     The silent pilot now chuckled. “Go ahead, Ianto. Give her the message.”

     The co-pilot nodded, opened a compartment, and handed her a small tablet. She took it warily, along with the set of nano-buds he extended to her. As soon as she slipped them into her ears the tablet activated and the image of a slender, outrageously beautiful woman in a jet-black dress popped up on the screen. Clara glanced at the soldiers, but they had their attention back on their instruments. She pressed her lips together, tapped the screen, and the video feed began to play. 

     “Clara Oswald.” Clara jumped a little at the sound of her name from the woman’s clear, crisp voice. “My name is Romanadvoratrelundar—but as the Doctor himself once did, you may simply call me ‘Romana.’ It saves time, and we need all the time we can get.”

     _Romana?!_ Clara’s eyes widened at the familiar name and she sat up straighter.

     “At the beginning of the Last Great Time War I was Gallifrey’s president—but I was in Arcadia, our second great city, when it was all but destroyed by one of the first Dalek attacks. Unfortunately I was cut off from the rest of the planet for several weeks—too long for Gallifrey to go without a leader—so the Council resurrected Rassilon from the Matrix to serve as our wartime president. If I’d been there I could’ve told them that was a terrible idea. Rassilon may be a great leader but he is _not_ a good man. By the time I returned to the Citadel, however, he had seized so much power for himself that there was nothing I could do…except one thing. _I_ could organize a resistance. Which is exactly what I did, as soon as the Doctor tucked us safely into a pocket universe away from the ravages of the Daleks. 

     “Of course, Rassilon was furious that the man he hated most was, yet again, Gallifrey’s salvation. But being cut off from the rest of the universe, what could stop _him_ from becoming an absolute tyrant? Nothing…except for a handful of brave Gallifreyans determined to snatch power back from him. That’s what I’ve been working towards for the past few years, and I was just getting somewhere when the Cloister Bells began to ring.”

     Romana paused and leaned forward. “Miss Oswald, please don’t take this lightly. The Cloister Bells only ring when catastrophe is on its way, and they’re prompted by forces beyond _any_ Time Lord’s control. If the Matrix says the Hybrid is coming, then the Hybrid _is_ coming. 

     “But whether the Hybrid itself or something else connected to it is the catastrophe, no one can know. The prophecy is still too vague, and I have scholars with me who insist there are so many possible interpretations, we’d be foolish to seize upon any single one. But Rassilon is so blinded by his own massive ego that any wisdom he once had is worthless—and if he can pin our worst fears on one theory, he will. Which is why you’re being whisked out of the Citadel as I speak.”

     “Come on, then,” Clara hissed. “Tell me _why!_ Get to the point!” 

     Romana smirked—and Clara nearly dropped the tablet. 

     This wasn’t a recording. Romana _was_ looking at her. This was _live._

“Hello,” Romana crooned mischievously. “I must say, I’m glad the Doctor has chosen a companion _almost_ as pretty as myself.”

     Clara blushed and let out a breathless laugh. “You— _ugh_ , you’re as bad as he’s told me! Very clever. Maybe _too_ clever.”

     Romana snickered. “Glad to know he’s given credit where credit is due, too.”

     Clara giggled. The co-pilot glanced over his shoulder at her; she pressed her lips together, embarrassed, but he just grinned. Reassured, Clara turned back to the screen. 

     “Okay, so why exactly do I need to be whisked away? I’m not on good terms with Rassilon, obviously, but you’re making it sound like he could make _me_ out to be the Hybrid.”

     “I suppose he could, since you now have Gallifreyan energy in your veins,” Romana said, returning to a more serious mood. “But my…shall we say, my _agent_ at the hospital, your friend Jodharaggadiar, shared some startling information about you that could play right into Rassilon’s hands. _If_ he ever found out about it, that is.”

     Clara stiffened. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”

     “Nothing. You are perfectly healthy—healthier than ever, in fact. But when Jodha examined you after you were restored to life, she _did_ discover two extra heartbeats.”

     “What do you mean? The regeneration energy gave me two extra hearts?”

     “No. But there _is_ a baby with two hearts inside you.”

     Clara blinked. “Sorry, what?”

     Romana raised her eyebrows. “You’re with child, Miss Oswald.”

     “No. No, I’m not. I can’t be. It’s not possible—”

     “Oh, it’s _quite_ possible. Genetically and biologically speaking, of course.”

     Clara drew a shuddering breath and let the tablet fall into her lap. She couldn’t decide whether to cry, laugh, or throw up—and to be honest, her churning stomach made that last option more likely that the other two. 

     _And of course_ that _makes sense now, doesn’t it? That’s why I’ve been sick in the mornings and this whole Hybrid business is why Jodha wouldn’t give me a straight answer about it._

 _Ohhhh Heaven help me. I gave_ my _life so Rigsy could go home to_ his _baby, totally oblivious to the fact that I had one inside of_ me. _A baby with two heartbeats. The Doctor’s baby…_

“Clara?” Romana called. 

     “Yeah.” Clara lowered her hand from her mouth. “Yeah, I’m okay…”

     “No, you’re not. And I don’t expect you to be. If Rassilon were to find out that you carried the Doctor’s child—a Hybrid if ever there was one—”

     “He’d kill me.” Clara slid a protective hand over her lower abdomen. “How far along _am_ I?”

     “You can ask Jodha that once you get here. You’re both be well on your way to the slopes of Mount Lung by now—and you’ll both be safe here for the time being.”

     “Wait, Jodha’s coming too?” 

     “Oh yes. She’s very important to our cause.” Romana raised an arched eyebrow. “Just how important, though, you’ll have to ask her yourself.”

 

* * *

 

It was dark by the time the shuttlecraft landed on the slopes of Mount Lung. Exhausted and hungry, Clara followed the soldiers into a massive building that seemed to be either attached to or grown out of the mountainside. Warm light streamed from the windows and she was pretty sure she heard the hum of soft, peaceful voices…or maybe that was just the wind in the thick grasses that carpeted the slope all the way up.

     She’d just stepped through the massive arched doors and noticed little clusters of Gallifreyans scattered around the huge front hall when she saw Romana racing towards her—and just behind her, Jodha. The younger Time Lady seized Clara’s hands so warmly, Clara felt safer than she had all week.

     “Thank goodness you’re here,” Romana said in her brisk, cultured voice, “or we’d have sent scouts out looking for you.”

     “Well, that’s what you get for telling us to take a circuitous route,” one of the soldiers retorted. “Rassilon will know we never returned to the hospital by now—but he certainly won’t be tracking us too easily.”

     “And I thank you for obeying my orders, but I still fear the journey might have been too arduous for our guest.”

     “Oh, no, I’m fine,” Clara lied, “just a bit tired. Oh, Jodha, I’m so glad to see you.”

     Jodha embraced her. “And I to see you.”

     Clara soon found herself in a much smaller, private chamber where Romana and Jodha fussed over her like she was the Queen of England. Romana brought in a light meal while Jodha checked not only Clara’s heartbeat with a small monitor, but the baby’s, too. Lying on the bed with her shirt pulled up over her stomach, Clara listened in awe to the fluttery double heartbeat.

     “I still can’t believe it,” she whispered. “When we first bonded the Doctor was pretty insistent that we make sure no little Time Tots made any surprise appearances.”

     “Well,” Jodha deadpanned, “if he didn’t want that to happen he shouldn’t have been chasing you around his TARDIS _._ ”

     Clara blushed and sat up, tugging her blouse back down. “Well, I just told him that if we were ever surprised, we should take it as a sign that we needed a baby of our own. Although I should probably admit…it was _always_ a mutual chasing.”

     Romana groaned as she handed Clara a steaming mug. “Oh, for Time’s sake, _enough_! I don’t need anymore such mental images, thank you very much.”

     Clara took the mug with a grateful (if slightly mischievous) smile and sniffed the sweet, spicy tea. The heat of the mug was as soothing as the quiet of the house. She sighed contentedly and Romana grinned at the sound.

     “I know,” she laughed. “Lungbarrow isn’t even _my_ Chapterhouse, but I will admit it is the coziest one on Gallifrey. You’ll find the others who live here are all on our side, too. I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised by their lighter, freer spirits, since the Doctor himself grew up here.”

     Clara sipped her tea. “I’m out of Rassilon’s reach here, then?”

     “Not exactly, but we can hide you better up here,” Jodha replied. “We even have a device you can wear that’ll mask _your_ heartbeat. If Rassilon sends drones in search of human life signs, it’ll only pick up your baby’s double heartbeat, not your single one. And if he sends actual soldiers…well, we can just as easily conceal you in any number of half-forgotten rooms.”

     Clara nodded, gripped her mug tighter. “Okay. What about the Doctor, though? Where is he?”

     Romana and Jodha shared another glance.

     “You know of the Doctor’s confession dial?” Romana asked. 

     “Yeah, of course. It’s a Time Lord’s last will and testament.”

     “In a way, yes. But it’s also a purification of sorts, in which the dying mind of a Time Lord is allowed to make its last confession before being uploaded to the Matrix.” Romana chewed her bottom lip. “The Doctor, however, has been trapped in his own confession dial…even though he is very much alive.”

     “What does that mean?” Clara demanded. 

     “It means,” Romana said slowly, “that the Doctor is being _forced_ to confess any and all of his secrets. Normally it’d be a peaceful, voluntary thing—but to a man who isn’t on his deathbed, and who has just suffered incredible grief…I fear it’ll be more like a torture chamber.”

     A shiver ran up Clara’s spine. “They want him to confess what he knows about the Hybrid.” 

     “Exactly.” 

     “He’ll never do it,” Jodha whispered. “He’ll never come out.”

     “He’ll _have_ to, eventually,” Romana said.

     Jodha laughed bitterly. “If you’d seen what he was like when he was a child, you’d know he has a stubborn, rebellious streak in him a hundred miles wide.”

     “Wait, you knew him when he was a child?” Clara cried.

     Jodha glanced at her, then at Romana. Romana raised her eyebrows. The older woman sighed. As Clara watched she reached underneath her high collar and pulled out a tiny device hanging from a fine black chain. When she pressed the black button in its center she started to flicker, like a hologram about to go out. Clara nearly sprang to her feet, horrified. 

     Jodha, however, didn’t vanish. She simply changed—from a tall, big-boned medic in a sterile white uniform to a shorter, delicate female in somber navy-blue robes. More interestingly, whereas the original Jodha had sported white hair but a strangely youthful face, _this_ one looked much older and sadder. Her dull, greying hair only reached the nape of her neck. 

     “Hello, Clara,” she murmured. 

     Clara peered at her. “Did you just regenerate on me?”

     “No, dear. It was merely a holographic disguise. I could hardly let Rassilon recognize me after I was given up for dead at the very end of the Time War, now, could I?”

     Clara glanced at Romana. The younger Time Lady cleared her throat and drew herself up. 

     “Jodha isn’t her real name, Clara. Long ago she was a great lady of this House, and a respected member of the High Council…until she defied Rassilon on the last day of the Time War.” Romana’s jaw tightened. “He made her stand with her hands over her face like a Weeping Angel as her punishment, and then he erased her name from the annals of Time.”

     Clara glanced at the old woman again. The new Jodha’s lips trembled. 

     “What happened then?” Clara whispered. 

     “I was trapped in the Council Chamber during the final attack on the Citadel,” Jodha murmured. “I truly thought, ‘This is the end…this is where I fall.’ Somehow, though I made it out of the wreckage alive. I didn’t tell a soul. Didn’t try to find any of my fellow Councillors, certainly didn’t go around looking for Rassilon. I managed to sneak into one of the refugee caravans headed to Mount Lung, though.”

     “And you started disguising yourself?”

     “No, no. I didn’t do that until I decided to go back to the Citadel…as Romana’s spy.” Jodha shot the younger Time Lady a wry look that Romana returned with a soft, amused snort. “But I’ve always been drawn to the healing arts. If I hadn’t been trained from childhood to serve on the High Council I would’ve wanted to be a doctor, so I decided to pursue that old dream with my new name and face.”

     Clara smiled. “Makes sense.”

     “Yes,” Jodha murmured. “In more ways than one. I’ve been able to do what I always _desired_ , while still feeding Romana information about all that transpired in the Citadel. But in a way, I always felt it was my way of honoring my son, too.”

     Clara caught the note of sadness in her voice. “He is—or was—in the medical field, too?”

     “Not exactly,” Jodha replied slowly. “But he does save people. Whole universes, sometimes. He more than deserves the name he chose for himself.”

     For the second time that day, Clara frowned in confusion for all of three seconds before the realization of what had just been said hit her like a tsunami. She slowly brought a hand to her mouth and stared first at Jodha, then at Romana, then back to Jodha. 

     “You…” She gulped, cleared her throat, tried again. “You’re his mother.”

     Jodha smiled—and right then and there Clara knew why she had always seemed so familiar. 

     The Bow-Tie Boy and the daft old Scotsman both had her eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes...
> 
> 1) According to the TARDIS Wikia (which has been an incredible resource throughout the writing of this story!) Russell T. Davies stated that "the Woman" in the Tenth Doctor two-parter "The End of Time" was originally written as the Doctor's mother, and that Claire Bloom was told she was playing the Doctor's mother when she was cast. Davies also said the character could be interpreted as "any trustworthy Time Lady" such as Romana or Susan...but I'm going with the stronger theory that she's the Doctor's mum, and a thorn in Rassilon's side. Whoo-hoo, Jodha! 
> 
> 2) Romana has regenerated at least four times; this is supposed to be her third regeneration, which (according to the artwork) looks more like Mary Tamm's Romana than Lalla Ward's.
> 
> 3) Would Clara have been that oblivious about a pregnancy? Well, when Trap Street happened she would've only been at the point where women *start* to suspect they might pregnant --and then with everything out of whack from the regeneration energy, I think it's plausible that she wouldn't have even considered it. (This note is for people like me who've watched too much Call the Midwife, haha.) 
> 
> 4) Obviously this is still an AU and I haven't seen or read every single itty-bitty morsel of Doctor Who, so my apologies to the die-hards who'll recognize where I've conjured up my own details about the Time War ;) 
> 
> 5) As you might've noticed, I've put a final number of total chapters on this story! I'm writing the epilogue right now and I'm absolutely thrilled about it...aaaaaaand I'm planning a Series 10 AU as well! A thousand thanks for all the support and the delightful comments. Each and every one has been greatly appreciated.


	14. Hell Bent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor breaks free.

_“_ _Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,_

_Then look for me by moonlight,_

_Watch for me by moonlight,_

_I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”_

 

_—Alfred Noyes, “The Highwayman”_

* * *

 

_Inside the Confession Dial…_

 

“ _Doctor…you’re not the only person who ever lost someone. It’s the story of everybody. Get over it. Beat it. Break free. Get up off your arse—and WIN!_ ”

     The Doctor slammed his fist into the diamond wall and screamed in agony. Not even good old hardy Gallifreyan bones could handle this kind of a bang over and over again within the span of a few minutes without a bit of fracturing—but Clara was in his head and her voice was shouting at him, begging him to keep trying and to never give up, never turn around, never look at what’s behind you _oh please Doctor please don’t stop fighting—_

“And the shepherd’s boy says!” the Doctor shouted, trying to drown out the wheezing of the hideous entity behind him, “ ‘There’s this mountain of pure diamond! It takes an hour to climb it…and an hour to go around it!”

     He was a bit surprised the scalding hands didn’t grab his head right then and there. He bashed the wall as hard he could and felt it shiver beneath his torn knuckles. Several jagged cracks showed. If he could just get a few more punches in…if the Veil would just slow down…if this really _was_ the outer shell of his own personalized hell…

     _Then I can break free. I’ll be out._

     “Every hundred years,” he went on, faster, louder, stronger, “a little bird comes and sharpens its beak on the diamond mountain—” _Hang on, my Clara._ “—and when the entire mountain is chiselled away, the first second of eternity will have passed!” _Watch me fight, Impossible Girl!_

     “You must think that’s a hell of a long time!” 

     The Veil replied with a blood-curdling moan _right_ behind him. The Doctor let out a desperate, furious scream, smashed his fist into the wall one last time… 

     And the last thin layer of diamond shattered. 

     A blinding light tore through the breach. The ground quaked; the Veil shrieked. The Doctor staggered, whirling in time to see the Veil writhe and collapse in a heap of grave clothes and gears.

     _It’s a machine. Just as I’ve been suspecting for at least the past few billion go’s._

“Personally,” the Doctor snarled, finishing the story at last, “I think that’s a _hell_ of a bird!”

     The fallen gears rattled in response. He heard a low rumble behind him and turned to face the breach. A brisk, hot breeze tore through the opening. The Doctor narrowed his eyes, wrung his throbbing hand, and strode outside. 

     As soon as he passed through, two things happened: the blood on his knuckles and the pain of broken bones vanished with an electric jolt, and the ground turned from smooth stone to gritty red sand. _He_ was out—not just the four-billionth-or-so clone of himself, but _him_. The portal closed; something dropped to the ground behind him. When he bent to pick it up he found the island-bound castle where he’d been trapped now preserved in miniature on a golden disc. As he watched, it vanished amid clicking cogwheels and disappeared beneath a smooth golden cover. 

     His confession dial. 

     _Of course._

Not long after he started to suspect the Veil was a mere machine he’d put the rest of the pieces together: why Ashildr had needed the dial, why the castle contained so many details and secrets only he would know…why he had to make confession. Four and a half billion years had given him more than enough time, too, to suspect who might’ve had both the cruelty and the sheer audacity to arrange this cycle of torture and interrogation—so when he lifted his head and saw the fortified, glittering dome looming over the arid landscape, neither shock nor hurt played into his reaction. 

     The Doctor felt only fury—a fury so cold it burned, and hatred too. 

     _I haven’t hated like this in a long time. Should it frighten me?_

_No. I don’t think anything will ever really frighten me again._

     He heard soft, light footsteps behind him. He whirled, expecting a troop of soldiers or even an automated military vehicle come to whisk him off, but he saw only a boy dressed in the rough, dusty clothes of a farmer’s child. The little boy stopped, staring in wonderment. 

     “Where’d you come from?” he demanded with the abrupt innocence of a curious child. 

     The Doctor hesitated, then jerked his head. The boy came closer. The Doctor bent his knees, laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and looked him in the eye.

     “Go to the city. Find somebody important, and tell them I’m back. Tell them I know what they did and I’m on my way. And if they ask you who I am…just tell them I came the long way round.”

     The child frowned, but the Doctor wasn’t exactly speaking in a tone that invited discussion or argument; he darted off after only a moment’s pause. The Doctor watched him a moment before glancing at the dial he still held in his hand. 

     “You can probably still hear me,” he called, “so just between ourselves? You’ve got the pro-phecy wrong. The Hybrid is not half-Dalek. _Nothing_ is ‘half-Dalek.’ The Daleks would never allow that.”

     He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his sonic sunglasses. As soon as he put them on they whirred, feeding him information about his exact location—not just his physical whereabouts, either, but within the fabric of time—and they told him something else he’d also suspected.

     He’d last used them, in real time, only six weeks ago. 

_Four and a half billion years…in six weeks._

     “If you think because that Clara is dead then I am weak, then you understand very little,” the Doctor growled. “But if you were any part of killing her and you’re not afraid, then you understand nothing at all. So for your own sake, understand this: the Hybrid, destined to conquer Gallifrey and stand in its ruins…is _me_. I’m coming to find you, and I will never, _ever_ stop.”

 

* * *

 

The sunglasses had honed in on a structure a couple of miles away. The Doctor trudged in its direction, stripping off his jacket and narrowing his eyes against the stinging wind-borne sand—and all the while the Citadel glittered behind him, huge and taunting in its magnificence. 

     Why had the confession dial been left this close to the Citadel? Nearly everything else made sense now that he was out of the dial, but that one point didn’t. If _he_ were Rassilon he’d have thrown it at least a hundred miles further out where he couldn’t cause a ruckus in the capital…which reminded him of something Osgood said to him during the Zygon rebellion.

     _“The first thing I’d do if I wanted to invade the world would be to kill you. I wouldn’t even let you get talking like you always do. Bullet between the eyes, first thing. Twelve times, if necessary!”_

Good old Osgood: she’d never underestimated him. Had Rassilon? Or did Rassilon leave him near the Citadel because Rassilon _wanted_ him near the Citadel? 

The Doctor scowled at the disturbing possibiltiy, but he froze as he reached the top of a dune and found himself staring down at the structure the sunglasses had detected. He blinked, shook his head, and blinked again—but the sturdy old barn where he’d nearly obliterated Gallifrey in a moment’s desperation didn’t vanish. 

     Either Rassilon had planned this marvelously, or the universe had a great sense of humor. But either way, the heat and wind were beginning to make him feel tired and dizzy. The Doctor suddenly didn’t care if the place was under surveillance. He just swallowed through the painful dryness in his throat and walked the last few yards towards the barn. 

     It didn’t look much different than it had when Clara, Bad Wolf, and three different versions of him had all agonized over the Moment. It smelled musty and his boots stirred up chaff, but except for the faraway clang of the Cloister Bells and the creak of the door as he closed it behind him the barn was silent. When he climbed up the short ladder into the loft he even found the old cot where he once dreamed of monsters under the bed and cried for his mother. He ran his hand along the homespun blanket—and with a flash of painful clarity he remembered huddling there as a child, listening breathlessly while a strange woman stroked his hair and whispered comforting words about the power of fear. 

     _“Fear doesn't have to make you cruel or cowardly. Fear can make you kind…”_

The door creaked again. The Doctor leaped up and whirled to face the intruder—only to find a short, rotund old woman entering the barn in the middle of a spirited rant.

     “Why are they ringing all the bells?! Never heard so many. What’s gone wrong this time? All the fuss they’re always making…” 

     She paused, faced the loft. The Doctor drew a breath and held it. He _knew_ her, from long, long ago. Only when she scowled did he realize she couldn’t see _his_ face. One of the beams in the loft blocked her view. 

     “You, up there!” she cried, coming closer. “You’re not supposed to be up there! I’ve just put all that back! It’s for the boys, if any of them ever want to come—” 

     She froze and startled recognition flooded her aging face. The Doctor tried to smile, couldn’t manage it, and offered a nod instead. The old woman’s eyes lit up for just a moment before she frowned and shook her head. 

     “They’ll kill you,” she said, sounding almost irritated about it. 

     “I have no doubt they’ll try,” the Doctor murmured. “How are you, Prespia?”

     She raised her eyebrows. “Oh-ho, what an accent we’re sporting these days! I’ve been better, I suppose—but what can you expect with things the way they are? Come down from there, let me have a closer look at you. Come here!”

     The Doctor retrieved his coat from the end of the cot and climbed down the ladder. Prespia’s wrinkled face softened as he approached; when he finally stood in front of her she reached up and cupped his narrow face in her calloused hands. 

     “Look at you, all grown up,” she whispered. “Let me tell you a secret, young man—you may be a thorn in the High Council’s side, but you’ll always be my favorite of all the boys we ever boarded. Never forget that, you hear?”

     In spite of himself the Doctor felt a small, weary smile coming on. Prespia patted his cheeks and folded her arms over her chest. 

     “Now then, what shall I do with you? Old Drelmar’s long gone, you know—killed when the Daleks razed the fields—so I manage the farm alone. But still…somebody might’ve seen you come in. It wouldn’t do for anyone to know you’re here, certainly no one in the Citadel—”

     “I _want_ them to know I’m here, Prespia,” the Doctor interrupted.

     She whirled, horrified. “In the name of the Schism, why?!”

     “ ‘Cause I’m lookin’ for a fight.” The Doctor narrowed his eyes, stepped closer. “Rassilon is still President, isn’t he?”

     She grimaced. “That’s what _he_ still insists on calling himself, I suppose. We Drylanders have taken to calling him ‘the Old Tyrant,’ though—when we’re certain his drones aren’t anywhere near-about and when we’re quite sure of the company we’re keeping. One can never be too careful, you know.”

     The Doctor frowned. “Why are the Cloister Bells ringing?”

     She shot an anxious glance at the gaps between the dried-out board wall. “Word is the Matrix has churned up some old prophecy. Time knows I’ve never paid much attention to such things—but there _is_ talk a-plenty of revolt and civil war coming out of the Citadel every day. Perhaps it has something to do with that. Do you know, they even say your old friend Lady Romana is planning some great mischief again the President up at Mount Lung?”

     The Doctor raised his eyebrows this time. “Romana?”

     Prespia nodded eagerly. “That’s what they say. Honestly, why can’t things be quiet and peaceful the way they used to be when you and little Koschei were boys? Life was so much _simpler_ then. But I suppose the war changed everything…”

     The Doctor barely suppressed a flinch at Missy’s childhood name and looked away. “Nothing is ever completely ‘quiet and peaceful,’ Prespia. Something’s always simmering underneath the surface.”

     “Well, _I_ could do with a little less simmering.” She sighed, rubbed her hands together. “Would you like something to eat, dear? You do look a bit peaked.” 

     The Doctor forced a small smile and nodded. Prespia smiled back and waddled away, delighted to be of service—but as soon as she latched the door behind her the Doctor pressed his back against a beam and slid to a seat on the floor, as exhausted as he was worried. He hadn’t expected Romana to play into this. And if the people really were finally resisting Rassilon’s tyranny…

     The fragile plan that had just started to take form in his head wobbled under the weight of this new information. Even if he _could_ get into the Citadel, talk his way into an extraction chamber, snatch Clara out of her timestream just before the Raven hit her, _and_ steal a TARDIS from the Cloisters, could he then just… _leave?_

     _Could I leave Gallifrey to fight this battle alone? Or would I hate myself till the end of Time?_

_They don’t deserve my help. Not after what they’ve done._

_“But_ they _didn’t do it, did they, Doctor? How could_ they _? You know good and well who did it. You mustn’t blame the ordinary Gallifreyan for what you’ve endured.”_

The Doctor leaned his head back and closed his eyes as he imagined Clara’s voice whispering sanity and compassion back into his frayed mind. Four and a half billion years in six weeks, and she’d never stopped being his carer.   

 

* * *

 

It was a good thing he hadn’t intended on keeping his arrival a secret because Prespia obviously couldn’t keep one. By the time she set a bowl of refreshingly cold soup in front of him on the work table outside, a small crowd of nearby villagers and farmers had gathered to see him. 

     At the sight of their weathered, dusty faces, something shifted inside him. The Doctor glanced at each one as he sat down (old men, women and children, mostly, although he spotted a few younger Gallifreyan men who must’ve gotten out of military service somehow) and nodded to them. Nobody said a word, but their eyes shone. 

     He’d been gone a long time and he was on his fourth face since he’d been here last, but they still knew exactly who he was. He wondered if they knew how close they’d all come to being utterly wiped out before Clara Oswald looked at him with those inflatable eyes of hers and whispered, _“Be a Doctor.”_

The Doctor forced a small smile and raised his spoon in salute. A few of the villagers smiled back shyly and watched, as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world, as he dipped the spoon into the bowl. 

     He’d barely lifted it out again before he felt the air shiver and heard the rumble of an incoming engine. The villagers whirled with terrified murmurs and gasps; the Doctor glanced up. An enormous hovercraft eased down until it floated a hundred yards or so above the ground, churning up dust and sand. The gun turrets whirred and twisted, focusing squarely on him. 

     _“Attention!”_ a voice boomed out of the ship. _“Will all non-military personnel step away from_ _the Doctor.”_

     The villagers didn’t move. One of the littlest girls turned her head and looked fearfully at the Doctor. Something about her wide, fathomless dark eyes made him tighten his fingers on the spoon. 

_“I repeat! All non-military personnel, please step away from the Doctor!”_

Silence. The Gallifreyans glanced at the ship, then at the Doctor, then back at the ship. Prespia wrung her apron and edged closer to him, as if she thought she might actually be safer at his side. Oh, the irony. 

     _“At least move the children away!”_ the voice inside the ship pleaded. _“Doctor, you_ will _lay down any weapons on your person and accompany us to the capital—”_

Too much. The Doctor dropped the spoon with a clatter and sprang to his feet. How dare they assume he had weapons—how dare they assume he’d come here to just take this lying down after all they’d done to him—to Clara—

     _“Whatever happens next, you don’t be a Warrior. Promise me. Be a Doctor.”_

The Doctor gritted his teeth and clenched his hands so hard, his knuckles ached. The villagers made a path for him away from the barn. The Doctor moved towards the ship, head held high, long legs pounding with long, determined strides. The ship backed up, the pilot obviously trying to keep the Doctor in his sights.  

     _“Doctor, you_ will _accompany us to the Capitol.”_

The Doctor stopped, looked up in the general area where he knew the pilot was watching. He glanced down at the red sand and back at the ship again, one eyebrow climbing…

     And dug his heel into the sand, making a long, deep groove in the gritty soil.

     _“Doctor?”_

The Doctor whirled, leaving the line in the sand behind him. The delighted villagers burst into defiant applause as he strode back to the table, unable to look at any of them except for the wee girl with the beautiful, enormous eyes. 

     _Fine, Clara. I’ll be a Doctor. But even a Doctor has to stop the monsters…even if he might be one himself._

 

* * *

 

“So this is gardening on Gallifrey,” Clara said as she twisted her trowel deep into the raised bed full of rich, moist red earth. “ _Greenhouses_. Guess it’s the only way to keep the plants from getting completely scorched.”

     “Well, they’d probably do fine up here if the soil weren’t so full of rocks,” Jodha replied, sitting back on her heels and wiping her forehead with the back of her gloved hand. “After all, it is a good deal cooler up here on the mountain. But there’d be little room for larger beds in what suitable ground we might find, so the greenhouses tend to do the trick. Have you got all those seeds planted?”

     “Almost.” With her bare fingers Clara picked up another tiny seed from the pouch tied around her waist and peered at it with gleeful curiosity. “When I was little my mum had a garden in our backyard. She planted these teeny black seeds in a pot and told me—in no uncertain terms, mind you—that it was my job to make sure they were watered every day.”

     Jodha smirked. “Did you apply yourself to the task?”

     “Oh _yes!_ I applied myself like any eager-to-please little eight-year-old would—and I _drowned_ them.”

     Jodha threw her head back and whooped with laughter. “And here I just assumed you would have forgotten all about your responsibilities! I apologize.”

     “Oh no, no, don’t apologize,” Clara replied, giggling herself. “I was so scarred, I decided then and there that if I had any plants of my own they’d all be succulents. They’re these cute little plants we have on Earth—you can hardly kill ‘em. When I got my own flat, I promptly bought three of ‘em and put ‘em in my window.”

     “And?”

     “Aaaaaaaand I killed them, too.” Clara shrugged. “Really did forget to water ‘em that time.”

     By this point the greenhouse _echoed_ with Jodha’s laughter—one of the best sounds Clara had heard yet in the six weeks she’d been on Gallifrey. Not even the songs the other Lungbarrow residents had taught her or the squeals of the few children in the house playing hide-and-seek could compare with Jodha’s laughter. Clara grinned as she dropped the seed in its tiny bed, covered it up, and gently patted it with dirt. 

     “In spite of my murderous past, though,” she said, “I’m really grateful you’ve let me help you with this. It’s given me something to do. I feel like…a functioning member of your society.”

     “Even though we’ve had to hustle you into the odd dusty closet a few times?” Jodha asked. 

     Clara shuddered. “Well, it’s been a week and a half since Rassilon sent a search party up here—and that’s the longest he’s gone without one. Maybe he’s starting to give up.”

     Jodha snorted. “He’ll always have one eye cocked towards Mount Lung for at least two reasons, Clara. One, this is the Doctor’s home—and two, it’s Rassilon’s predecessor’s chosen place of residence. No matter how well Romana and her people conceal their operations, he’s always going to suspect her of some mischief or another.”

     Clara nodded, wiping her hands on her skirts as she stood up. “Have to admit, I enjoyed helping with that little disruption of the military exercise last week, too. It felt like somethin’ the Doctor would do—mostly just harmless mischief, but enough of it to put the bad guys out of commision for a few days.” 

     “You were quite the steely-eyed soldier yourself, I hear,” Jodha replied. “Remotely operating our drones and then getting them back to the mountain undetected is quite a feat.”  

     Clara thought of Danny Pink and the Doctor—both of them soldiers in their own ways—and nodded. “I learned from the best.” She looked away and bent to pick up the box of gardening tools, but Jodha gave an indignant exclamation and grabbed it before she could. 

     “You know the rules,” Jodha said sternly. “No heavy lifting for you.”

     “Oh come on, Jodha, I’m not an invalid.”

     “No, but you are carrying _my_ grandchild and I intend to make sure both of you get to the end of this pregnancy as strong and sound as possible.” Jodha patted Clara’s cheek with her dirty glove; Clara smirked and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Now come along. I’m sure Anzead has the noon meal ready for us by now.”

     With that she strode ahead of Clara through the rows of flourishing gardens. Clara hurried after her, peeling her hair off her neck and winding it up in a loose knot. Even with the cool air blasting in through a vent the heat of the greenhouse left her feeling sticky. It didn’t help the fact that lately she always felt like she might go up in flames. Jodha assured her it was just hormones: she had absorbed the regeneration energy by now, but her body still had to compensate for the baby growing inside her. 

     She was about fourteen weeks along now. Fully clothed she barely showed—but every night, lying flat on her back in her bedroom next door to Jodha’s, she’d stroke the small, gentle swell of her belly and smile at the incredible thought that she carried a precious, tiny life inside of her. And not just any life, but a half-human, half-Gallifreyan one. 

     It still made her blush to think, too, that its conception must have happened _right_ after the Zygon rebellion, when the Doctor finally told her outright that he loved her and then spent a fair amount of time demonstrating just how much.

     In a way, though, it felt appropriate. _Of_ _course_ she and the Doctor would (unknowingly) make a baby mere hours after standing their ground against Zygons—and _of course_ she would only find out about it after dying and coming back to life, courtesy of the long-lost Gallifreyans. Romana hadn’t given up on her intense search for the confession dial and Clara was hardly out of the woods when it came to Rassilon’s furious search for _her._ But honestly, if they all made it out of this alive Clara had a feeling she’d never be surprised by anything ever again. 

     _Wherever you are, Doctor, just keep fighting_ , she thought, breathing a sigh of relief as she followed Jodha back into the cool dark of the house. _I know you don’t know I’m alive but please…beat it, whatever you’re fighting._

“Clara! Jodha!” 

     She looked up with a start. Romana ran down the corridor towards them, dark skirts and hair streaming behind her. Her already-pale face looked unusually white and she clutched a tablet against her chest. Jodha froze but Clara brushed past her, her heart beating faster. 

     “What? What is it?” she demanded. 

     “News from the Drylands,” Romana gasped, handing her the tablet. “The Doctor is free.”

     Clara snatched the tablet from her and tapped the video on the screen. She covered her mouth with her hand at the sight of a solitary figure in white and black staring down an enormous gunship. She didn’t need a close-up shot to know exactly who it was. 

     “What’s he doing?” she asked, unable to get her voice above a whisper. 

     “Apparently he refused to go into the Citadel when summoned,” Romana replied. “The General sent me that video, which means Rassilon must have installed some kind of surveillance system around that barn.”

     Clara glanced up. “They must’ve set it up long before the Doctor got there, then.”

     Romana nodded. “He boarded at that farm during his time at the Academy, didn’t he?” 

     Jodha swallowed hard; she hadn’t stopped staring at the tall, lanky figure in the video. “Yes. It was one of several farms near the Untempered Schism. The Academians thought it’d be best for the children to learn hard labor during the early days of their training. I remember his letters…”

     “I have to see him,” Clara said, handing the tablet back to Romana. “When can I go?”

     Romana’s eyes widened. “You _can’t._ Not yet, certainly! Didn’t you hear what I said? The barn is under Citadel surveillance. Rassilon is probably watching his every move—and if _you_ were to make a sudden appearance after all this time—”

     Clara leveled her best I-am-the-teacher-and-you’d-better-listen-to-me glare at the much taller Time Lady. “You’re the leader of the best-organized resistance movement in the history of _ever_ , Romana. I’ve watched you disrupt Rassilon’s war games and his government from hundreds of miles away, and you whisked _me_ out of the Citadel without anyone knowing a thing about it for hours. You can get me to that barn.”

     Romana still looked uneasy. “It’s not a question of whether I _can_. We could sneak you in under cover of darkness without a problem. The difficulty is, we might not be able to get you out again. That barn will _crawling_ with military personnel by morning. The General himself has already gone to the barn to try and convince the Doctor to come to the Citadel. He said the High Council will try next before nightfall.”

     Clara snorted. “Well I can tell you right here and now, that’s not gonna go over well. Trust me on this, Romana, please. You said yourself: the confession dial is a form of torture to a man who’s not ready or willing to die—and worst of all, he thinks _I’m_ dead. You’ve got to let me go to him before—”

     “ ‘Before?’ ” Jodha prodded. 

     Clara dug her nails into her palms and pulled in a deep breath. “Okay, listen. I’m not trying to give myself more credit than I deserve, I swear—but I know my Doctor. I know what he’s like when he thinks I’m dead, and I know what _I’m_ like when I think _he’s_ dead. We’d go to hell for each other if it came down to that. So unless you’re keen on finding out what he’s like when he thinks he’s got nothin’ left to lose, you’ve got to find a way to bring me to him.”

     Romana hugged the tablet to her chest. Her dark eyes flitted between Jodha and Clara. 

     “There’s something else the General mentioned,” she murmured. “When the Doctor emerged from the confession dial—”

     “Where was it?” Clara asked. 

     “In the desert. No wonder we couldn’t find it. It’d be like picking a needle out of a haystack.” Romana sighed, shook her head in disappointed disgust. “Anyway. When he emerged, he claimed _he_ was the Hybrid.”

     Clara blinked. Jodha looked horrified. 

     “That’s not possible. He is full-blooded Gallifreyan—I’d swear on it!” she cried.

     Clara folded her hands over the swelling beneath her skirts. Romana noticed and Clara saw her throat contract, as if they were both thinking the same exact thing:  _Maybe the Hybrid isn’t the Doctor at all. Maybe it’s the baby._

“We can’t let this go on,” Clara whispered. “I’ve _got_ to see him.”

     “And if he _is_ the Hybrid?” Romana demanded. “What then?” 

     “Oh for Heaven’s sake, Romana—you said yourself we couldn’t settle on any one interpretation! The Doctor probably doesn’t even know for sure _he’s_ the Hybrid. He’s just figured out what’s eating Rassilon and he’s goading him! But even if he _is_ the Hybrid he’s gonna tear this place apart lookin’ for justice or vengeance or whatever you want to call it—so please, for the love of your planet, take a bloody risk and _take me to that barn!_ ” 

     Romana still hesitated, biting her lower lip until Clara was afraid it might bleed. Jodha drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and touched the younger Time Lady’s arm. 

     “She’s right,” Jodha said, quiet but firm. “You’ve urged me to help lead your resistance, Romana, and I’ve refused time and time again—but I’ll offer you a bit of advice this one time. Clara knows him better than either of us. She’s traveled with him through all of time and space, _and_ she carries his child. Only his first wife could’ve made such a claim—and Eleva never even traveled with him. For all our sakes, Romana, _be clever_ and find a way to get her to that barn before he calls down hellfire on Gallifrey.” 

     Clara held her breath. Romana sighed, tapped her thumb on the tablet, and nodded. 

     “All right,” she whispered. “Be ready to leave here at dusk, Clara. I’ll arrange a transport.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pretty sure I read that Steven Moffat said the Doctor was *actually* only in the confession dial for a month or so, even though he perceived it as 4.5 billion years. Kinda like the Pevensie kids being in Narnia for 20 years only to come back to Earth and realize only seconds had passed. As you can see, I snatched up that concept and ran. 
> 
> But here's the thing: why *does* the Doctor think he's the Hybrid? Hmm... #stay tuned


	15. The Hybrid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor gets an unexpected trio of visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*sings softly*) "Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for..."

_I have died every day waiting for you_

_Darling don't be afraid I have loved you_

_For a thousand years_

_I'll love you for a thousand more_

_And all along I believed I would find you_

_Time has brought your heart to me_

_I have loved you for a thousand years_

_I'll love you for a thousand more_

 

_—Christina Perri, “A Thousand Years”_

 

* * *

 

“Aren’t you going to speak to _any_ of your visitors?” Prespia asked as she lit the lamp on the little table next to the Doctor’s cot. “They’ve come all the way from the Citadel, after all. If you were still a Time Tot I’d be asking you where your manners had gone.”

     The Doctor shot her a half-amused, half-withering look. “If the High Council thought I’d invite them inside for tea and scones then not only would I be givin’ them _exactly_ what they wanted, but _you_ would find yourself with a barn full of guests who don’t know the meaning of economical cuisine.”

     Prespia’s face twitched. “You and your words. I don’t know how your brain and your mouth work in tandem sometimes.”

     “Trust me, sometimes the mouth outruns the brain. Or vice versa.” _And then I stick my foot in it and Clara will have to make me a new set of cards and—_

     No. Stop. Full stop. Clara was dead, and he had to stop acting like she wasn’t. What was it old King Lear once said? “O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; no more of that!” The Doctor rubbed his hands together and stared at the floor of the loft for a moment, trying to rearrange his thoughts in a colder, more organized fashion. When he looked up again Prespia gazed at him sadly. 

     “You poor boy,” she murmured. “You should never be alone. Some people are cut out for that, of course, but _you_ …”

     She shook her head, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed his forehead. The Doctor almost chuckled. Here he was, in _this_ face—the one that had led Danny Pink to assume he was Clara’s dad—the one with the attack eyebrows—and yet she still treated him like the shy little schoolboy she remembered. 

     After four and a half billion years, he ached for a little tenderness.

“Goodnight, Doctor,” Prespia whispered. “Remember, you’re welcome in the house. I’ll leave the door on the latch. Come in any time.”

     He nodded, knowing full well he’d stay here all through the night. He listened as she hobbled down the ladder and shuffled across the stone floor to the door, muttering to herself about how the farm had never seen such activity in all her born days.

     But when the door flew open with a quick, agonized creak he heard her gasp and sprang to his feet in alarm. He hurried to the edge of the loft and saw, to his surprise, a tall, slender figure in a dark cloak looming in front of the old woman. 

     Not a member of the Council, then. And definitely not Rassilon. 

“Madam,” a soft, clear voice murmured from under the hood, “may I speak with the Doctor?”

     “I—he doesn’t—I mean—” Prespia stammered. “He doesn’t much care for guests.”

     The figure lifted two pale hands and pushed back the hood, releasing a wealth of dark hair and revealing a stunning, chiseled, feminine face. She glanced in his direction, sharp eyes flashing. The Doctor’s mouth fell open.  

     “Romana,” he breathed. 

     She smirked. “Glad to see you recognize me, too. Third regeneration. What do you think?”

     The Doctor scrambled for a retort. “Suspiciously similar to your first face.”

     Romana snorted. “Maybe I liked that one. And listen to the pot calling the kettle black. Don’t you resemble _your_ third a bit too much?”

     He almost let a grin cross his face and quickly forced it back. This was too serious—too dangerous—what in the name of common sense— _no no, stop it, she used to be your companion, since when do you or any of your companions exercise common sense, it’s what gets half of them killed and terrifies the rest of them into leavin’ you behind—_

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, stepping down the ladder. 

     “I could ask you the same thing.”

     “I thought you were leading a resistance against Rassilon.”

     “More of a sabotage operation. I can’t take the final steps to overthrow him until I’m sure the people are absolutely ready to back me up.”

     “They seem pretty ready to me,” the Doctor muttered, nearly in front of her now.

     “Maybe,” Romana shot back. “But the military will never risk the possibility of being branded a traitorous force if they aren’t rallied by the one leader they have always trusted the most. And the people will not trust any replacement government unless it, too, is led by the one man they believe has their best interests at heart. You know of whom I speak, Doctor.”

     He scowled; Romana raised an eyebrow. Prespia cleared her throat. 

     “I believe I’ll just…scurry on back to the house,” she whispered. “Call me if you need me.”

     The Doctor glanced at her and nodded; she forced a small smile and hurried out. As soon as the door shut behind her he glared at Romana. 

     “Don’t ask me to lead Gallifrey in your glorious revolution,” he growled. 

     “Why not?” Romana demanded. “You saved us from the Last Great Time War.”

     “I was a much younger man. And a much kinder one.” The Doctor stretched out his arm in the direction of the Citadel. “But you put me in command of gunships, Romana, and I’ll blow the Council Chambers to kingdom come. I wouldn’t harm a single innocent, but if you put me in a position where Rassilon and the High Council are at my mercy I will do things I’ll regret for _eternity_!”

     “You don’t trust yourself?”

     “Would you trust _yourself_ if you were trapped in your own confession dial for four and a half billion years?!” the Doctor exploded. “I have died _over_ and _over_ again in _agony_ because somebody out there hoped I’d eventually break and tell them whatever they wanted to know about the Hybrid! But I refused. I fought inch by inch, minute by minute, until I finally broke _free_ —and believe me, Romana, if I ever find myself face-to-face with Rassilon I will break his neck with my own bare hands for what he did!”

     “For what he did to you, or what he did to Clara Oswald?” Romana snapped.  

     The Doctor stared at her. Romana’s jaw flexed and she stepped closer until they were inches apart. 

     “I know,” she whispered. “I know all about Clara, and I know what she meant to you.”

     “How?” he rasped. 

     “Never mind that. I don’t doubt that Rassilon deserves every ounce of your wrath—and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’d _enjoy_ watching you unleash it on him. But I also believe that even in your terrible, terrible pain, you are perfectly capable of carrying out justice without getting carried away. And do you know why?” Romana paused, laid a hand on his chest. “Because deep down you’ve never wanted to be a Doctor of War. You’ve only ever wanted to be _the_ _Doctor—_ and _that’s_ who our people need right now. Only you can give them the courage they need to rise up in such a unstoppable wave, even Rassilon will quake in fear.”

     The Doctor swallowed down a painful thickness in his throat. “I think you have far too much faith in me.”

     Romana smiled. “No…I just know you better than you know yourself. I believe it’s one of the job requirements of being your companion.” 

     He tried to smile back and failed. “All the same, don’t put me in charge of any weaponry.”

     “I won’t, I swear. But I do need you to summon the military. The General is on our side, and discontent has been brewing within the armed forces for years. Once they join the resistance, Rassilon’s power and that of the High Council are broken.”

     “A military coup, then?”

     Romana smirked. “The military is merely backup. Once Rassilon is removed from power, you and I and the other leaders of our movement will form a temporary government and plan free elections. It’s high time we Time Lords moved past such a backwards system of oligarchy.”

     “But what if I _am_ the Hybrid? What then?”

     She put her hands on her hips. “What makes you think you are the Hybrid? Both of your parents were Gallifreyan. You don’t even fit the prophecy—”

     “What do you think I saw in the Untempered Schism, Romana?”

     Romana blinked. The Doctor looked hard at her and dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. 

     “I saw myself…standing in Gallifrey’s ruins, willing to unravel the Web of Time for _someone_. I didn’t know who and I didn’t know why, but it terrified me. I ran away from Gallifrey ‘cause I was scared that one day I’d meet someone I couldn’t bear to lose, and I’d destroy my own home just to keep that one person by my side. That’s enough to make me the Hybrid, Romana. Not because I’ve stood in the ruins of Gallifrey—which I have—or because I’m a half-breed—which I’m not—but because I’m _that_ willing to destroy the Web of Time to…to…” 

     “To heal your own heart?” Romana murmured.

     The Doctor dropped his gaze. “I’d tear her out of her own timestream just to have her again.”

     “Probably about time to let you know that won’t be necessary, then.”

     The Doctor lifted his head. Romana pursed her lips, stepped towards the door; she opened it a few inches, and to his surprise two more cloaked figures slipped through. One of the newcomers pulled back her hood and he drew a sharp, shaky breath as he recognized a small, dignified Galli-freyan woman with penetrating blue eyes and close-cropped, greying hair. 

     “Hello, Son,” she murmured. 

     The Doctor glanced between her and Romana, utterly bewildered. “You—but I thought—”

     His mother smiled and squeezed the hand of the even smaller, still-hidden stranger beside her. The mysterious figure raised a feminine hand out of the folds of her thick black cloak, pulled back the hood…

     And the Doctor suddenly felt as if his hearts had completely given out on him, because Clara Oswald herself gazed at him with her enormous, beautiful eyes, her hair all mussed from the hood, her cheeks flushed, her chin wobbling, and her breathing shallow and quick. 

     “Doctor,” she whispered. “Doctor, it’s me.”

     “No,” he rasped, staggering backwards. “No, this isn’t real. I’m dreaming, you’re all dreams— _ghosts_ , all of you—!”

     His words clogged in his throat as Clara closed the distance between them in three desperate strides and grabbed a fistful of his sleeve. The Doctor froze. She jumped up on tiptoe, wrapped her arms around his neck, and looked him in the eye. 

     “Is this real enough for you?” she whispered—and crashed her lips against his. 

     Once upon a time he hadn’t believed Robin Hood was real. He’d doubted everything his senses were telling him for as long as he could, and now he tried to tell himself _this_ wasn’t real, either. He’d seen her die, he’d felt her dead limp weight in his arms, he’d laid her on the bed and said goodbye and _I heard her scream, she_ can’t _be alive!_

But Clara was kissing him. _Hard_. She always kept this sort of thing confined to the privacy of the TARDIS, so that was either a point in favor of her being not-real… _or_ it meant she was very much real and trying to prove it. 

     _Only one way to tell. Be skeptical. Be critical. And be strong. Even if it breaks your heart._

The Doctor wrenched his head free. Clara stared up at him, breathless and flushed. 

     “Tell me something only I would know,” he rasped. “Say something only Clara Oswald would say.”

     Clara blinked. The tears that had welled up in her huge eyes tumbled down her cheeks and she curled her fingers in his hair. 

     “Only I would know what I promised you on our wedding night, yeah?” she whispered. “Well here you go, Doctor. ‘I promise you all my yesterdays and my tomorrows and everything in between. I can’t promise you forever but I _can_ promise you my little lifetime because I love—’ ”

     Unbeknownst to either the Doctor or Clara, Romana’s eyebrows nearly reached her hairline at the sight of her old friend silencing the human girl with the most enthusiastic kiss she had ever seen. She glanced at Jodha; the older woman smiled, tilted her head towards the door. Romana needed no further invitation: she all but ran for the door, letting Jodha glide out ahead of her and then shutting the door as softly as she could behind both of them. 

     “How much time do we give them?” she whispered as they headed towards the farmhouse. 

     Jodha laughed. “All the time they need, my dear. All the time they need.”

 

* * *

 

Clara watched, mesmerized with happiness, as the Doctor sprang ahead of her up the ladder to the loft. He reached for her as soon as she clambered to the top, running his thumb over the top of her hand as she looked around.

     “So this is where you used to sleep when you were little,” she said. 

     His tired eyes flickered. “She’s been telling tales on me, hasn’t she?”

     “Who?”

     “My mother.”

     Clara smiled, but decided not to mention her secret about their long-ago meeting when he was just a Time Tot. “Oh, she’s told me a few stories.”

     The weary humor in his eyes spread into a small smile. She shivered as he cupped the side of her neck in his free hand and ran his thumb along the line of her jaw. 

     “You shouldn’t be alive,” he whispered. 

     “I know,” she murmured. “But sometimes, very rarely, impossible things just happen and we call them miracles.”

     “Don’t quote my own poetry back at me. There must be a logical explanation.”

     Clara laughed. “Okay, fine, if you’re going to be a Mr. Spock about it. Regeneration energy.”

     “Regeneration energy,” he repeated.

     “Yep.” She reached up and brushed a bit of dust out of his hair. “Rassilon never meant for _me_ to die, apparently. He never even meant for Rigsy to die. He just wanted to capture us both—you in the confession dial, and me…well, I was supposed to be a secondary ‘source of information.’ Jodha says—”

     “Jodha?”

     Clara closed her eyes, shook her head. “Sorry. That’s the name your mother goes by now.”

     “Ah.”

     “Anyway, she told me that once you were gone, _they_ rushed in and brought me back. Ashildr, Rigsy, Anah, and her daughter were all retconned. That was six weeks ago.” Clara bit her lip, fingered the limp collar of his white shirt. “I guess that means I’ve been missing for six weeks back on Earth, too. My dad’ll be worried sick…”

     “Have you seen Rassilon?” the Doctor demanded. 

     “Yeah.”

     “And?”

     “And I gave him a piece of my mind! But I didn’t say a word about the Hybrid, I can tell you that.”

     He frowned. “What do you know about the Hybrid?”

     “Not much, actually. You certainly never told me anything about it. Unless you want to count callin’ Ashildr one, but I don’t think that’s even the same thing.”  

     The Doctor dropped his gaze. Clara waited, her breath catching in her throat as he reached up and undid the cloak’s clasp at her throat. When he pushed the heavy material off her shoulders she didn’t even try to stop it from falling in a heap on the dusty floor. 

     “How long has it been for you since you last saw me?” she whispered.

     The Doctor ran the backs of his fingers along her arm. “Oh…I’m not sure…”

     “How long?”

     “It doesn’t matter—”

     “It matters to _me_ ,” Clara hissed, seizing his vest. “Romana told me what it’s like to be trapped in that thing before you’re ready to die—so we aren’t gonna talk about anything else until you tell me. How long, Doctor?”

     He shuddered. Clara felt his hearts pounding beneath her hands. 

     “Four…” He paused, cleared his throat, and tipped his head back—but he kept his eyes down as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. “Four…and a half…billion…years."

     Clara’s breath caught. She bent her head and dropped it against his chest, sick with horror.

     “Oh, Doctor…”

     “I could’ve left any time I wanted, I suppose,” he muttered. “I just had to say what I knew. It would’ve released me—that’s how they work, after all. But I knew that if I gave in I might not ever get to the bottom of it. I had to find out who’d killed you and how to bring you back—”

     “ _No!_ ” Clara cried, flinging her head back. “Why would you even do that? As far as you knew I was _dead_ —dead and _gone_! Why would you do that to yourself?! You could’ve gotten out—you could’ve come here and helped Romana and overthrown Rassilon and found me safe and sound right here as a bonus—but no! You had to be stubborn and bullheaded about it because you thought you might be able to bring me back?! What are you gonna do when I die for good, Doctor?! You can’t save me forever, you _can’t—_ ”

She hiccuped on tears as he took her face in his trembling hands—and even though he looked like he might break down at any moment himself, this time he didn’t hesitate to meet her gaze.

     “I had a duty of care,” he said, hoarse and broken. “And I…I can’t bear to lose you.”

     Clara squeezed her eyes shut and smothered an anguished sob. He leaned forward and pressed  long, tender kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and finally her lips again. When he finally broke away she hid her blushing face in his chest and hugged him as tightly as she could. 

     “I love you, my Impossible Girl,” he whispered against the top of her head.

     She sniffled, hugged him even tighter. “I love you too, you daft old man.”

     He chuckled—the first time she’d heard him laugh in what felt like ages. Clara smiled in spite of her tears and lifted her head. 

     “Okay, listen,” she whispered. “I have something I need to say.”

     He raised his eyebrows. Clara took a deep breath, laid her palms against his chest. 

     “People like me and you, we should say things to one another,” she began nervously, “and I’m gonna say them now. I don’t know if you’re the Hybrid. You might be, you might not. _I_ might be the Hybrid, for all we know. After all, I’m the human who came back to life thanks to Gallifreyan regeneration energy. Even your mum says I’ll probably live an extra hundred years now—maybe two.”

     The Doctor frowned. Clara cleared her throat. 

“The thing is…I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there _is_ a hybrid in this room.”

     The Doctor stiffened. “ _Where?_ ”

     Clara reached for his hand, clasped it tightly, and brought both their hands to rest against her abdomen. The Doctor jerked his head up, his blue-grey eyes widening.  

     “You see?” Clara whispered, trying to laugh. “I told you once that if we were ever surprised, it might just be a sign that we _needed_ a Time Tot. Well, listen up, Doctor. Here’s your sign.”

     “But—” he stammered, shaking his head. “But that’s not possible—you _died_ —”

     “And if it had been a completely human baby I probably would’ve lost it,” Clara replied. “But _this_ baby has two beautiful, stubborn little Time Lord hearts that just kept beating on their own, long enough for me to come back to life. It’s a fierce, precious little thing…and it’s _yours_ , Doctor.”

     His eyes reddened and glistened and he drew a ragged breath. When he exhaled she couldn’t decide if it sounded like a laugh or a sob. 

     “I don’t know what to say,” he whispered. 

     Clara laid her free palm against his cheek. “You remember when you and I lied our heads off to each other in that coffee shop, and you said Gallifrey could be a good place? You said you could help make it that way. Make good on that promise now, Doctor. You help make Gallifrey a good place so our baby can have a home on either end of the universe.”

     He stared at her a moment, then lifted her hand from his face and kissed it. 

     “Whatever you say, Boss,” he said, a smile softening the growing determination in his eyes.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated the chapter count because I put in the wrong number, haha. We've got one more chapter PLUS the epilogue left!


	16. The Hybrid Ascending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demons run when a good man goes to war.

_Don't close your eyes, I’m right beside you_

_Don't be afraid, I’m never far_

_You and I were always meant to_

_Wake the dreamers from the dark_

_Come out, come out wherever you are!_

 

_—Nichole Nordeman, “I Will Believe”_

 

* * *

 

Clara woke a couple of hours later from what could only be classified as a power-nap to the feeling of long, gentle fingers running slowly through her hair. She opened her eyes and smiled…then wrinkled her nose as a violent urge to sneeze suddenly and completely overwhelmed her. 

     “Bless you,” the Doctor said as she sniffled, post-explosion. 

     “Thanks,” Clara mumbled, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. “All this dust is gettin’ to me.”

     “Well, we couldn’t both fit on the cot, if you recall,” he deadpanned, jerking his head towards the other end of the loft. “Although I must say…bit of straw, bit of hay? Makes for a fairly comfortable bed.”

     She giggled and he flashed one his rare, radiant grins down at her. She lifted her head, looked around. Through the gaps in the wall she saw a pale golden light just starting to come over the night-chilled desert. A cool wind whistled through, too, stirring up the chaff and leaving a light dust all over her skirt and his jacket that he’d draped over her in the night. She shivered.

     “Cold?” he asked, resuming his fingers’ tender business along her hairline. 

     “More nervous than cold, to be honest.”

     “Nervous is good,” he murmured. “Nervous is almost as good a superpower as fear.”

     She looked sharply at him, then dropped her gaze and propped herself up on her own elbow. She took his hand and ran her thumb along his knuckles. 

     “Y’know,” she whispered, “ _I_ know who grabbed your ankle all those years ago in this loft.”

     His eyebrows shot up. “You do?”

     “Mm-hmm.” Clara looked at him through her lashes and smirked. “You’re not the only one in this relationship who’s pulled a fast Boostrap Paradox.” 

     He looked so stunned and then so genuinely impressed, she couldn’t help a giggle. He grinned again and leaned towards her. Clara eagerly met him halfway—but the door creaked open downstairs just as their lips met and the Doctor jerked his head back.

     “If that’s you, Fred, your timing is appalling!” he shouted, sending Clara a poker-faced wink.

     “Who’s Fred?” Jodha called—and Clara choked back another laugh as the Doctor sat bolt upright. When she twisted her head over her shoulder she saw Jodha standing just in front of the door, peering warily at the loft and kneading her slender hands together. Clara scooted into a sitting position and drew her knees up to her chest. 

     “It’s okay, you can come in,” she said, waving. “We’re awake and decent.”

     Jodha smiled in relief and took a few urgent steps closer. “If I could leave you undisturbed for the rest of the day, I would—but Romana just received an encrypted message from the General. Rassilon is on his way, along with a squad of soldiers. You might want to…prepare yourselves.”

     Clara glanced at the Doctor. His jaw flexed, but he stood up and headed down the ladder. She decided to stay right where she was. Something told her she needed to keep her respectful distance from _this_ reunion. 

     “I never thanked you,” she heard the Doctor say quietly. 

     Jodha frowned. “For what?”

     “For not letting me kill Rassilon all those years ago…or the Master.”

     Jodha tried to laugh and shrugged. “I didn’t do a thing. I didn’t even speak.”

     “No,” the Doctor said softly. “But you _looked_ at me. That was enough.” 

     Jodha’s aging, lovely face twitched with emotion for just an instant before she pulled herself back together with a quick sigh and a proud lifting of her head. She reached up and touched the Doctor’s face with the backs of her fingers. 

     “I am so proud of you,” she whispered. “No matter what happens today, never doubt that.”

     Clara dropped her chin on her knees and hugged them. She knew the Doctor wouldn’t indulge in an emotional display for his sake as well as for his mother’s, but she was glad all the same when she saw him take his mother’s hand and give it a kind, gentle squeeze.

     Whatever happened today, at least they’d all go into it knowing they were deeply loved. 

 

* * *

 

Less than an hour later the door flew open again, and as soon as the Doctor heard Prespia’s gasping, wordless cry he knew Rassilon had come. He only had to turn his head and nod and she hurried back out without a word. The anxious quiet that had hung over the barn for the past thirty minutes or so now grew heavy as lead. The Doctor glanced around the loft—at Clara, sitting beside him with her hand in his, at his mother, perched on a crate as if it were a throne, and at Romana, pacing the length of the loft with slow, regal strides—and he clenched his fingers around his confession dial. 

     This was it. This was the final confrontation. He stood up; Clara rose with him. He slipped the dial into his breast pocket. Jodha stared up at him and Romana stopped her pacing. 

     “You’re sure you made the call?” Romana whispered. “Because I don’t like the looks of those spectacles.”

     He pulled an exasperated scowl. “Oh, come off it. They do the exact same thing as the screwdriver—and a little more besides.”

     “I preferred the screwdriver,” Romana retorted a bit too sharply. Hadn’t she said something to him long, long ago about sarcasm being “an adjusted stress reaction?” He was pretty sure that was what was going on here and, therefore, decided against arguing his case further. He simply sent her and his mother a reassuring nod before tugging Clara’s hand and leading her down the ladder. 

     He didn’t like bringing Clara out with him, but she’d insisted. _“Together or not at all,”_ she’d said, and it had reminded him so much of Amy and Rory that he hadn’t had the heart to argue with her, either. She held his one hand with both of hers until they reached the door; there she stopped and quickly brushed some straw off the front of his jacket. 

     “Gotta make sure you’re presentable,” she whispered, picking a bit of chaff from the sleeve.

     He bent his head closer to hers. “I love you, Clara Oswald.” 

     “And I love you.” She lifted her head and gave him one of her most adventurous, devil-may-care smiles. “Now let’s go out there and stop the monsters.”

     His chest swelled. He squeezed her hand, grabbed the latch, and pulled the door open. The hot wind immediately struck them full in the face; Clara winced, but resolutely matched his strides. The Doctor narrowed his eyes and counted eleven figures standing between them and Prespia’s farmhouse: nine troopers, the General, and Rassilon. The Lord President had obviously regenerated since they saw each other last. He hadn’t shirked from dressing up in his full Prydonian regalia, either. 

     He did, however, have the decency to look startled when he saw Clara Oswald at the Doctor’s side. The Doctor tightened his grip on her hand as they approached the line he drew yesterday in the sand. Rassilon fastened his glittering eyes on the Doctor, refusing to look in Clara’s direction again, and extended his hand.

     The Doctor glanced down, then back up again. Rassilon forced a smile. He probably meant it to be warm and inviting. Instead it reeked of condescenion, superiority, and lies. The Doctor reached into his breast pocket. Rassilon’s smile faltered as he drew out the confession dial and tossed it between their feet. 

     “Get off my planet,” the Doctor growled.

     Rassilon jerked his head up. “We needed to know. You have information about the Hybrid—a danger to _all_ of us, to the entire universe! If you had told us what you knew, you could have walked out of there—”

     “ _Get off my planet_ ,” the Doctor snapped again. 

     Rassilon drew himself up to his full height. “You have nothing, Doctor. _Nothing!_ ”

     “I have _everything_ ,” the Doctor hissed. “Everything that matters, anyway. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? Because you measure the value of everything and everyone simply by how useful they are to you. You wouldn’t know a thing about loyalty, or kindness—or love, for that matter.”

     As he spoke he ran his thumb over Clara’s hand. She responded by bringing her other hand up to his and touching his wrist. Rassilon scowled, hatred flaring in his eyes. 

     “That’s all very well and good for you, Doctor,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “But do you know what _I_ have, out here in the Dry Lands, where there’s nobody who matters? _No witnesses._ ”

     The Doctor frowned and Rassilon spun on his heel. As soon as he had his back to them Clara looked up at the Doctor; he met her gaze and shook his head. Rassilon _would_ bluff—he always did—but he’d be a fool to actually do anything drastic. He might not have any witnesses at the moment but the Drylands were _full_ of people. People who mattered. And even if Jodha, Romana, and the General hadn’t been anywhere nearby, Prespia at least would see to it that the news of any foul play spread far and wide—

“Take aim!” Rassilon roared. “Aim at them! Fire on my command.”

     The Doctor stiffened. _All right, not quite what I expected._ Clara squeezed his hand, her nails digging into his skin. The General’s mouth fell open and he shot a brief, panicked look at the Doctor. 

     “Sir?” he began, addressing Rassilon. “Are you certain that—”

     “Step forward and take aim! What's the matter with you?!”

     “Lord President, he is a _war hero!_ Some of these men served with him!”

     “These men serve _me!_ ” Rassilon screamed. “All of you! Now—on my command!”

     “Clara, go back to the barn,” the Doctor murmured. 

     “No,” she whispered. 

     “Do as you’re told.”

     Clara responded by wrapping her arms around _his_ arm and tossing her wind-rumpled hair out of her flashing eyes. The Doctor considered shoving her behind him, but the troopers had lifted their massive rifles and he found himself staring down the barrels.

     _The two of us…and the little one…no no no no no…_

     “We die right, Doctor,” Clara breathed. “Die like we mean it. Together or not at all—”

     “ _Fire!_ ” Rassilon roared. 

     The troopers fired. The Doctor closed his eyes and felt the heat of the plasma blasts whiz past his head, fully expecting to feel one hit him in the chest or to feel Clara slump beside him. But nothing happened. He opened one eye and then the other as the soldiers lowered their guns. Clara whirled, still clutching his arm, and her mouth dropped open. 

     The barn door smoldered with nine scorch marks, all of them either far too high or way off to the side. 

     “You missed!” Rassilon bellowed. “All of you! _Every single one of you!_ How is that possible? Is the firing squad afraid of the unarmed man?!”

     “Doctor—” Clara gasped. 

     He gave her a sharp, stern look as Rassilon seized one of the soldiers by the collar of his body armor, dragging him forward. The trooper was a young man with a dark face and deep, thoughtful eyes. 

     “You, explain!” Rassilon demanded. 

     The young man lifted his head and looked straight at the Doctor. “There was a saying, sir, in the Time War…‘The first thing you will notice about the Doctor of War is he’s unarmed. For many, it's also the last.’ ”

     Rassilon blinked. The young soldier shrugged his hand away and stepped forward, tossing his gun at the Doctor’s feet before stepping over the line in the sand. He fixed himself on the Doctor’s other side. 

     “I was at Skull Moon, sir,” he said softly. 

     The Doctor blinked as memories of that battlefield flooded his head: screaming Daleks, dying Gallifreyans in regeneration loops, the stench of burning flesh, and a hard-won victory. The clatter of dropping weapons, however, tore his thoughts away from the past. He looked up just as the rest of the soldiers stepped across the line. 

     “Not one more of you moves!” Rassilon screamed. “That is an order!”

     No one obeyed. All nine troopers took their places just behind the Doctor and Clara. Only the General remained at the Lord President’s side, and _he_ kept darting careful, meaningful looks in the Doctor’s direction.  

     “Fine!” Rassilon snarled. “You leave me no choice…” He raised his gauntlet and it started to glow. “How many regenerations did we grant you? I’ve got all day!”

     The words were barely out before the low, menacing growl of incoming engines made everyone look up. The Doctor would never admit it to anyone—least of all the younger Time Lady waiting in the barn—but the sight of four gunships streaking in from the Citadel was enough to make him breathe a (discreet) sigh of relief. 

     “Excellent, General—you sent for reinforcements,” Rassilon said smugly. 

     “No, he didn’t,” the Doctor said, reaching again into his pocket. Rassilon stared in confusion as the Doctor pulled out his sunglasses and put them on. They chirped over the roar of the engines, feeding him information about each ship, their crews, and their response to the message he’d crafted half an hour ago right after Jodha let him know Rassilon was on his way. 

     _Response to transmission: ACCEPTED._

“What?!” Rassilon bellowed, panic throbbing in his voice now. “No! I am Rassilon the Redeemer—Rassilon, the Resurrected— _and Gallifrey is mine!_ ”

     With that, the General stepped between the uplifted gauntlet and the Doctor. 

     “Lord President, with respect… _get off his planet_ ,” he growled. He tossed his gun at Rassilon’s feet, something about the twist of his wrist telegraphing his contempt in no uncertain terms, and turned to join the tiny rebel force on the other side of the line—only to crumple as Rassilon discharged such a powerful blast of energy from the gaunlet, it sent an electric tingle through everyone nearby. 

     Clara screamed and the Doctor jerked her behind him. The troopers formed a protective circle around them both. One of the gunships fired at Rassilon—not to kill, but to enclose him in a shimmering protective forcefield. Romana burst out of the barn with eyes blazing, Jodha on her heels. 

     “In the name of the people of Gallifrey,” she screamed over the engines, “I declare your rule over this planet null and void!”

     “ _General!_ ” Jodha cried. The Doctor reached out and grabbed her arm, holding her back as the  General struggled to lift himself off the ground. His head and hands glowed and he groaned through gritted teeth, trying to keep the regeneration from spreading too far and too close to the others. Jodha writhed a little in the Doctor’s grasp, gave up, and clutched his hands. 

     When the energy finally died down Clara took Jodha in her own arms and the Doctor stepped forward. The General’s head lifted—and the Doctor froze.

     “Oh, back to normal, am I?” _she_ gasped. “The only time I’ve been a man, that last body. Dear Lord, how _do_ you cope with all that ego?”

 

* * *

 

Clara had never heard of a coup that unfolded quite this fast—or quite as satisfactorily. Rassilon was carted back to the Citadel via the forcefield (she had to admit, the sight of him raging and bellowing inside the glimmering red bubble was pretty amusing) while Romana, the Doctor, and the General promptly arrested the High Council and announced the end of Rassilon’s so-called “Reconstruction State.” 

     Well, actually, the Doctor himself announced _that_ last one. Clara listened, unable (and unwilling) to keep a proud grin off her face, as his firm Scottish brogue carried over the Citadel’s vast speaker system. And the result? People turning out of their homes and rejoicing in the streets—as much as dignified Gallifreyans could bring themselves to rejoice, anyway. It certainly wasn’t Blackpool during a bank holiday but Clara supposed, in such a grand civilization, it was comparable. 

     Besides, she had a feeling the freer spirits at Lungbarrow or in the Drylands were a bit more demonstrative. 

     The rest of the day progressed with non-stop action, the resistance leaders either seizing control or handing it back to local magistrates while Romana established an interim cabinet and the Doctor and the General secured all military forces on the planet. But that night, while the sun hung so low in the sky that it bathed everything in deep crimson, the General, Jodha, Romana, Clara, and the Doctor all watched inside the Council Chamber in solemn silence as a shuttlecraft streaked free of the Citadel dome. Standing just off to the side with her arms folded over her chest, the crafty old woman in red—Ohila, Priestess of the Sacred Flame—watched, too. No one dared to speak until the shuttle’s glimmering lights finally faded from view. 

     “Gallifrey is currently positioned at the extreme end of the time continuum for its own protection,” the General began quietly. “We’re at the end of the universe, give or take a star system. The President and the Council may not find anywhere to go.”

     “ _He’s_ not the President any more,” the Doctor muttered, sending a meaningful glance in Romana’s direction. She raised an eyebrow at him. 

     “Neither am I, technically,” she replied. “Presidents usually serve as a single figurehead, after all. As equal—and temporary—co-rulers, I don’t think either of us really qualify for the title.”

     “But _you_ will, eventually,” he retorted. “I certainly won’t be on the ballot when you and your new Council announce free elections.”

     “You won’t be staying on Gallifrey, then?” Jodha asked softly. 

     Clara heard the sorrow in her voice and glanced up at the Doctor. The grim, focused determination that had kept his face so hard all day long softened a bit. 

     “ ‘Not staying’ doesn’t mean ‘staying away forever,’ ” he said. “Clara and I decided last night that if we got to the end of this day alive we’d divide our time between Gallifrey and Earth. Clara’s got family back there, and they’re probably losing their minds over her whereabouts—”

     “Not to mention UNIT’s probably freaking out over _yours_ ,” Clara muttered. 

     “Yeah, well, Kate Stewart wouldn’t normally bat an eyelash,” he countered. “Problem is, the TARDIS is parked in a back alley somewhere in London and I highly doubt that escaped her notice— _and_ Kate should probably know about Trap Street.”

     For the first time Ohila turned her attention from the window and looked over her shoulder. “I suppose all of you have failed to notice that the Cloister Bells are still ringing.”

     Clara blinked, jerked her gaze back to the enormous windows. She’d been so busy and there’d been so much to absorb, she hadn’t even stopped to really listen. Ohila turned her short, squat self from the window and fixed Clara and the Doctor with intense, narrowed eyes. 

     “Rassilon trapped you in your confession dial for four and a half billion years in order to extract information from you about the Hybrid,” she said sternly. “ _You_ claimed, on your escape, that you _were_ the Hybrid. But the Bells never stopped ringing, did they?”

     The Doctor frowned, drew himself up. Clara could practically see the “error-error-please-re-start-computer” message in his eyes. If she weren’t so confused herself, she might’ve giggled. The Doctor befuddled was such a rare and rather glorious sight. 

     “If the truth had been spoken,” he said slowly, “the Bells would have gone silent.”

     “Exactly. Which means the truth about the Hybrid remains concealed. Or, at least, unspoken.”

     “Well, if he _isn’t_ the Hybrid, then…who is?” Romana demanded. 

     “Ashildr,” the Doctor murmured. Everyone looked at him and he lowered his steely gaze. “A human girl I saved. Half-human and half-Mire now, really. She’s functionally immortal.”

     Clara frowned, cocked her ear back to the Bells. They clanged again, stubbornly. 

     “The baby,” she whispered. Ohila raised an eyebrow and Clara nodded, moved a hand to her stomach. “That’s why Jodha helped me escape the hospital. My baby is half-human, half Time Lord.”

     Ohila’s other eyebrow went up, nearly vanishing behind her headdress, and she glanced at the Doctor. Clara couldn’t be sure in this weird red light, but it looked like he might be blushing. 

     “ ‘The Hybrid, the union of two warrior races, will stand in the ruins of Gallifrey,’ ” Ohila recited slowly. “ ‘It will unravel the Web of Time and destroy a billion billion hearts to heal its own.’ ”

     “You think our child will be a monster, then?” the Doctor snapped. 

     Ohila narrowed her eyes even deeper until they looked like slits in her round, lined face. “Matrix prophecies are not exactly known for single, specific interpretations, as you well know—so I propose another possibility.”

     “Which is?” 

     Ohila stepped forward, eyeing him and Clara so closely that Clara wanted to squirm. “What if the Hybrid wasn’t one person, but _two_? A dangerous combination of a passionate and powerful Time Lord and a young woman so very similar to him. Companions who are willing to push each other to extremes.” She paused, looked straight at Clara. “You and the Doctor once stood in the ruins of Gallifrey, did you not? You even unraveled, after a fashion, the Web of Time when you undid the Moment’s devastation—and _now_ you tell me that the two of you have conceived a hybrid child…the union of two worlds.” 

     “But what about the whole thing about destroying billions of hearts?” Clara cried. “We haven’t done _that_ …have we?”

     Ohila glanced at the Doctor, who remained very still and very silent. “Well…perhaps _that_ is merely a dire warning of what _could_ be, if the Hybrid isn’t careful. You’d go to hell if she asked, wouldn’t you? One could argue you’ve already endured it for her sake. And I can see it in your eyes, too, Clara Oswald. You would go to the ends of the universe for him.”

     Clara’s throat clenched but she nodded—slow, frightened, yet unashamed. “I would.”

     “Then a word to the wise? Watch yourselves.” Ohila reached out and grasped their arms, forcing them to meet her penetrating gaze. “Time has looked into both your faces and demands that you tread lightly, no matter the heartache that will one day find you. When it comes—and it _will_ , for all things must come to an end—do not fight the unchangeable future. Otherwise, the Hybrid may very well become the monster. For now, though…” 

     She paused, released their arms, folded her hands beneath her enormous sleeves again, and for the first time Clara saw a kindlier twinkle in her eye. 

     “For now,” Ohila said, “perhaps the Hybrid will simply be a Witness.”

     “Of what?” the Doctor asked, a little hoarsely. 

     “Of _goodness_ , Doctor,” Ohila replied. “Simply _goodness_.”

     Clara looked up at the Doctor. He seemed…fragile. Fragile with relief. He must’ve sensed her watching him because he glanced down; she sent him a small, loving smile and slipped her hand into his much larger one. 

     “Well, hey,” she murmured, squeezing his fingers. “In that case, maybe the Hybrid isn’t just you and me. Maybe it’s all _three_ of us.”

     The Doctor’s expression shifted. He sent a faint smile back to her and laced their fingers. 

     And right at that moment, the Cloister Bells went quiet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on "Fred"--When Romana first introduced herself the Fourth Doctor with her super-long Gallifreyan name, he replied that he'd either have to shorten it to "Romana" or call her "Fred." She replied that she'd rather be called "Fred," so...he called her "Romana." 
> 
> Next up: the Epilogue! I can't wait to post it. In fact, I may share it a bit sooner than usual simply because I'm just way too excited about introducing y'all to the Hybrid Baby (aaaaaand about revealing its name, which still makes me grin like an idiot every time I think about it). Any guesses? (Hint: the baby *will* be named after somebody in this story but will also get a derivative nickname...a name with very special significance in the Doctor Who fandom.)
> 
> A million thanks for all the support and lovely comments, as always!


	17. Baby Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm dedicating everyday to you / Domestic life was never quite my style / When you smile, you knock me out I fall apart and I thought I was so smart..." -- Hamilton, "Dear Theodosia”

_For one so small, you seem so strong_

_My arms will hold you, keep you safe and warm_

_This bond between us can't be broken_

_I will be here, don’t you cry_

 

_—Phil Collins, “You’ll Be In My Heart”_

 

* * *

 

_Bristol, England_

_Five months later_

 

“Aaaaaand that looks like it’ll be just about perfect,” Clara said, sliding the finished essay across one of the picnic tables that dotted the campus of St. Luke’s University. “You’ll get a good solid ‘A’ on that paper, Nandini—I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure of it.”

     Her student smirked. “What? You are not one hundred percent sure?”

     “Well, that little bit of wiggle room is only for the very small possibility that you don’t turn it in to your professor on time.” Clara stacked her dictionary atop her thesaurus and a binder of notes and shot Nandini a mischievous look. “But seein’ as how you’re almost _obsessively_ punctual, I’m thinkin’ only traffic and/or a thunderstorm of biblical proportions could stop you.” 

     Nandini laughed and leaped up from the picnic bench. “Thank you so much again, Miss Oswald. I _really_ appreciate you tutoring me.”

     “Well, thank _you_ for bein’ such a good student! Email me as soon as you find out your grade. I’ll be lookin’ forward to it.”

     Nandini nodded. “Hopefully the email will find you all tucked up in a hospital bed, too.”

     Clara snorted. “Don’t _I_ hope so.”

     Nandini giggled and leaned over, giving Clara a hug before darting away and out of the shade with her backpack slung over one shoulder. Clara watched her a moment, smiled thoughtfully, and reached awkwardly for her own bag propped under the table against her shin. Thankfully it wouldn’t be as heavy as long as she kept the dictionary and thesaurus tucked under her arm, and the walk back to her new flat wasn’t long. She eased herself off the bench and to her feet, wincing a little as the weight of her enormous swollen belly tugged at the muscles in her lower back. 

     “ ‘Tucked up in a hospital bed,’ indeed,” she muttered, keeping her voice low so any passersby wouldn’t hear her and think she’d gone nutters. “I wish you’d just hurry up and make your dramatic appearance, Little Doodlebug.”

     As if the baby could hear and understand—and the Doctor had assured Clara that she _could_ —“she’s a Time Tot, _of course_ she’ll be more perceptive than most babies, and smarter, too!”—Clara felt a swift little kick in her left side. She smirked, shifted her books to her other arm, and rubbed the spot. The baby shifted in her womb as if leaning towards her touch. 

     “I know, I know,” Clara whispered, stepping onto one of the smooth grey sidewalks that slithered all over St. Luke’s campus. “You’re getting cramped, and I’m _more_ than uncomfortable in this heat…but there’s nothin’ either of us can do about it until _my_ body decides to kick you out. And seein’ as how you’re special…that might be a little longer than most babies.”

     Her hybrid daughter wriggled a bit. Clara imagined her trying to get comfortable in the rapidly-shrinking space, sucking her thumb, maybe even smiling sleepily at the sound of Clara’s voice. Of course she’d be drowsy right now at three o’clock in the afternoon, though. Come night, she’d be wanting a dance party. 

     A lazy, seaside breeze stirred Clara’s hair as she hurried for the nearest bus stop. She sighed in gratitude. She knew UNIT hadn’t had her pregnancy hormones in mind when they planted her here in Bristol, but the unavoidable move had turned out for the best. After her six-week disappearance last autumn and her sudden, inexplicable return with the Doctor, the superintendent of Coal Hill School had flat-out refused to take her back as a teacher. Said somethin’ about being “unreliable” and “unstable” and “an undesirable influence on the students”—a harsh insult that Clara still hadn’t quite gotten over. 

     Kate Stewart, on the other hand, had been a different story. Apart from her unconcealed shock and mild exasperation when the Doctor and Clara finally returned to Earth and showed up on Tower Green in a borrowed cylindrical TARDIS, she’d been very understanding. The Doctor had explained to her about Trap Street, Gallifrey, and the stranded phone box in East London; Kate, had let him get all the way to the end of the story before she announced, rather smugly, that they had found the Old Girl and transported her safely into the Black Archive. Clara still giggled every time she remembered the Doctor’s face when he first saw _his_ TARDIS again. For a minute there she thought she might have to give the two of them a moment alone together. 

     Her dad’s reaction had fallen somewhere between Kate’s and Mr. Armitage’s. Whereas Linda offered nothing but baleful looks and spiteful comments, Mr. Oswald had just stared at his precious daughter with such sorrowful eyes that Clara felt eaten up with guilt. She _wanted_ to tell him about Trap Street, the Raven, and Gallifrey—but she’d been under strict instructions from Kate _not_ to do that. Dave Oswald could only know that his little girl was a UNIT agent, that she’d been called away on a “classified mission” with Dr. Smith (also a UNIT agent), that her employment with the organization was top-secret-must-not-be-shared-with-anyone-beyond-this-conversation…and, of course, that she was expecting. 

     That last part had been nothing short of awkward. When he found out Dr. John Smith wasn’t just the father of his grandchild but his son-in-law, Clara thought her dad might go into shock. Linda, by contrast, wasn’t at all surprised. She enjoyed making several more snide remarks, mostly about May-December romances and what Clara would do if she found herself a widow before she was forty because, after all, Dr. Smith _had_ to be on the wrong side of fifty. If Gran hadn’t called that first evening back, giddy with delight over her granddaughter’s safe return and the prospect of her first great-grandchild, Clara might’ve cried her eyes out and sworn off Earth altogether. 

     She was glad now that she hadn’t. Kate had gotten her the tutoring job at St. Luke’s and even teased the possibility of getting something like it for the Doctor if he ever wanted to settle down and enjoy that UNIT paycheck. Clara had enjoyed taking on struggling students, too, helping them with their papers and building relationships without the pressures of a classroom setting or teenage angst…all while finding time, somehow, to steal away with the Doctor to Gallifrey and watch while he and Romana carefully chiseled away millenia after millenia of oppressive traditions and beliefs. 

     She sank down on the bus stop bench and leaned back with another sigh. The tall, dark girl sitting on the other end of the bench in a striped tank top and blue jeans glanced at her and grinned. 

     “Gosh,” she said, her eyes twinkling with friendly humor, “you look ‘bout ready to pop!”

     Clara giggled and rubbed her stomach. “I _feel_ like I’m ready to pop.”

     “You’re one of the tutors, aren’t you?”

     Clara paused, surprised by the question. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

     “I’ve seen you around, workin’ with a few of the students.” The girl shrugged, looked down at her hands. “Always wondered what it’d be like to have a teacher givin’ you their full, undivided attention, y’know? What d’you teach?”

     “Well, I used to be an English teacher, so I help with essays and dissertations, mostly.” Clara looked at her a little more closely. The girl seemed shy, yet desperately curious and eager for a friend. _Just my kind of person._ “You’re a student here at St. Luke’s?”

     The girl shook her head. “Nah. I work at the canteen.”

     “Oh!” Clara sat up, intrigued. “I thought you looked familiar! I’ve been in there a few times. My mother-in-law’s a doctor and scolds me about eating too much fried food, but the crisps in there are to die for.”

     The girl snickered. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment! I’m the one that whips ‘em up.”

     “Then you are doing a great and good work for mankind,” Clara said gravely. 

     The girl laughed outright at that just as the bus rolled up. Clara got to her feet, feeling unusually monstrous and sore. “This isn’t your bus?”

     “Nah, I’ve gotta wait for the next one,” the girl replied. “But hey, next time you’re in the canteen, just ask for me. I’ll make sure you get an extra crunchy batch a’ crisps if you like.”

     Clara smiled, glanced at the name tag pinned to the girl’s top. “Well, Clara Oswald will just have take you up on that one, Bill Potts.”

 

* * *

 

Her new flat was just as cozy as her old one in London, and in a much nicer part of town. She didn’t even have to climb up too many flights of stairs: her place was only on the second floor. Clara let herself in with a heavy sigh of relief and tossed her bag and books onto the table, then made a beeline for the fridge. She pulled out a small carton of yogurt, a chilled bottle of water, and collapsed on the living room couch with a spoon…just as she heard the familiar groan and wheeze of a certain time-traveling machine in the laundry room, of all places. She smiled and leaned back against the couch pillows. 

     “I’m in the living room!” she shouted as soon as she heard the TARDIS door open. 

     Footsteps, loud and long and quick. Clara tipped her head back and got a slightly-skewed, upside-down view of the Doctor poking his head around the living room doorframe. 

     “Hey,” he said. 

     “Hey,” she replied. “What have you got for me?”

     He grinned, leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. “News you’ll like.”

     “Oh yeah?” Clara mumbled, stuffing her mouth with strawberry yogurt. 

     “Romana’s been elected fair and square, along with a new High Council,” the Doctor said, ticking off the points on his fingers. “The Drylands’ll get the irrigation system they’ve been cheated out of for the past, oh, six hundred years or so—Prespia and Company should be very happy about that— _and_ the new Council’s resolved to maintain communication with Earth through Yours Truly and a certain Teacher, that is.”

     Clara snickered and scraped the sides of the yogurt carton. “The Doctor and the Teacher. Has a nice little ring to it.”

     “Well, you know, the name you choose for yourself is like a promise.” He ambled over to the coffee table in front of the couch and lowered himself to a seat on top of it and in front of her, elbows on his knees. Clara smiled.

     “You know,” she said, letting a coy note slide into her voice, “you don’t _have_ to watch me like I’m the most riveting thing you’ve ever seen.”

     “And what if you are?” he asked, just as flirtatious. She giggled and he grinned broadly at her. “Would you rather I stopped?” 

     “Nah,” she said, holding the yogurt between her knees while she twisted the cap off the water bottle. “A girl could get used to being marveled at. Even if she does look a bit like a beached whale.”

     The Doctor snorted. “You do _not_.”

     “Oh come on, Mr. I-Speak-The-Honest-to-God-Truth-No-Matter-Whose-Sensitive-Feelings-Are-At-Risk. I’m _enormous_. How big do Time Tots end up getting in utero, anyway?”

     He frowned, rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. There aren’t very many pregnancies on Gallifrey. Most children are loomed, unless they’re conceived and born in the Drylands.”

     Clara peered at him. “You think that’ll ever change?”

     “Maybe.” He glanced off to the side, pensive. “What’s the old saying…‘Rome wasn’t built in a day?’ At least Gallifreyans can decide now who they want ruling over them. Maybe one day they’ll all be free to decide who they want to _be_.”

     “I hope so,” Clara murmured, glad once again that she hadn’t sworn Earth off after all. _Their_ little one, at least, would be free to do whatever she wanted with her life. Any Gallifreyan traditions surrounding the daughter of a high-born Time Lord could take a hike.

     “So!” he cried, slapping his knees and leaping to his feet before she could drag herself out of her own reverie. “Where do you wanna go?”

     “Go?”

     “Anywhere you please!” He flashed a radiant smile as he spun once on his heel and held out his palms, magician-like. “I’m in a mood, Clara—a rare mood. What d’you say to a white-tie dinner at the third-finest restaurant in the universe, followed by sunset-watching on one of Marravan’s seven beaches, followed by _you_ watching in rapt attention while _I_ invent a flying submarine? Why a flying submarine, you ask? Because no one’s ever done it before and it’s annoying—but it may come in real handy about two thousand years from now and we’re time travelers—that’s how we roll!” 

     Clara burst out laughing. “You are _crazy_.”

     “You’re just figuring that out now?” 

     “Ohhhhh no—trust me, I’ve known for a long time. And it’s really sweet of you to offer me such a fantastic date night, but…would it be too much to ask for a quiet evening in?”

     A flicker of confused worry crossed his face and he plopped down next to her. “Are you feeling all right?”

     “Oh yeah, I’m fine. I’m just exhausted.”

     “Pudding brains giving you trouble at the university?”

     “No,” she laughed softly, resting her head against his shoulder. He slid an arm around her and leaned back, bringing her down with him—and she thought, abruptly, how far they’d both come since that day when he announced he wasn’t a hugging person anymore. “No, they didn’t give me any trouble…but my feet hurt and I ache all over and I just want to sit here on the couch with you and watch a movie and eat pizza.”

     The Doctor hummed in disapproval and crossed his ankles on the table. “No, no. Not pizza.”

     Clara nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder. “Ugh…don’t tell me you’re gonna be a wet blanket about my diet now, too.”

     “ ‘Too?’ ”

     “Your mother gave me a hard time about it last time I saw her.”

     “Oh. Well, no. No, I was thinking more along the lines of Chinese.”

     Clara smiled and slid an arm around his waist. “Mmm, I could be okay with that.”

     “But I can’t order it if you insist on cuddling.”

     She laughed. “Five minutes of cuddling my big bad Time Lord. _Then_ you can order the Chinese, I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Just like when she lived in Shoreditch, they hardly ever slept in the flat’s master bedroom. After consuming enough Chinese takeout for four people and watching half of an action flick, they retreated into the TARDIS. The sentient machine hummed a soft welcome as soon as the Doctor shut the doors behind them. Clara ran her fingers over the console.

     “G’night, Old Girl,” she mumbled sleepily. “See you in the morning.”

     The TARDIS dimmed the lights in kindly response. The Doctor took Clara’s hand and led her to the bedroom where, for the past five months, she often woke to find him thrashing beside her, battling the demons of the confession dial and his lingering terror that he’d wake up in a world where she was still dead on Trap Street. Tonight she was too weary to ask how he was feeling or thinking. She undressed clumsily, pulled on one of his old t-shirts and stretched it over her bulging stomach, and collapsed into bed. He settled in beside her and pressed a kiss into her hair.

     “Sleep well, my Clara,” she heard him murmur. 

     “You too,” Clara mumbled. 

     The baby kicked once and then, unusually, decided to call it a night. Clara melted into the soft mattress and closed her eyes, letting the faint whir of the TARDIS engines lull her to sleep…

     And bolted awake at a sudden, tight pain in her lower back. 

     Clara gasped, lifted her head off the pillow. She _had_ been asleep—had probably been sleeping for a while. The Doctor had one arm flung over her, too, which could only mean _he_ was dead to the universe for once. Clara winced, adjusted her position, and started to lie back again…only to gasp as every muscle in her back and stomach clenched. She sat up, fighting for breath. 

     “ _Doctor_.” 

     He slept on. Clara tugged his arm, pressing her other hand to the small of her back. “ _Doctor!_ ”

     “Hmm, what?” he groaned, struggling to get upright as fast as he could. “What’s wrong?”

     “Ohhhhhh—” Clara ground her teeth and squeezed his wrist so hard, _he_ hissed in pain. “It-it’s starting. Doctor, it’s starting!”

     “Lights!” he snapped, and the TARDIS obliged. Clara groaned, the contraction finally releasing her. The Doctor sprang out of bed and fixed himself in front of her, easing her to her feet. 

     “That’s it, that’s it,” he murmured as she buried her face in his chest and tried very hard not to cry. “Well, it certainly does sound as if you’re well on your way.”

     “I’m scared…”

     “I know. I can feel your heart pounding. Hey hey, look at me…look at me, Clara.” He cupped her face in his hands and made her lift her head. “Remember what you told me? Fear is a superpower, and right now your body is gettin’ ready for one of the greatest things it’ll ever do—and it’s just ramping up, makin’ you stronger and braver than you’ve ever been. What’s wrong with ‘ _scared_ ,’ hmm?” 

     “Nothin’,” Clara whispered. “Nothing—”

     Her voice broke down in a whimper as another contraction set in. The Doctor set his jaw and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, leading her to the door. 

     “Right,” he muttered. “Next stop…Gallifrey.”

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t thought about the birth of his son—Susan’s father—in a long time. The child had been one of the few high-born Time Tots born the old way, and his conception had been yet another reason for the Time Lords to look on his parents—especially his father—with a mixture of contempt and concern.

     Now the memories came back fast and furious while the Doctor watched Clara pace her room in the Citadel Hospital, her round face flushed and sweaty, her breath coming heavily between pursed lips. They’d decided weeks ago to have the baby here. Now he either walked alongside her, holding her hand and regaling her with story after story to distract her, or rubbed her back while she gripped the end of the bed and groaned through the intensifying pain. He tried to ignore the curious gazes of the nurses who darted in and out of the room. When he caught one of them staring at him, he glared at her until she blushed and scurred away. 

     Fine. Let ‘em whisper and giggle out there about how the mere sight of Clara Oswald in labor turned the Rebel Time Lord into a giant softie. People had laughed at him for much sillier reasons. 

     His mother, at least, didn’t send him any judgmental looks. She glided in and out of the room, making sure Clara and the baby were all right, whispering soothing words into Clara’s ear, and occasionally squeezing his shoulder just to let him know she was there. 

     It had been night on Earth when they left, dawn on Gallifrey when they arrived. By the time the Gallifreyan sun reached its noon apex Clara rocked on her knees by the bed with her head 

on her folded arms, whimpering. The Doctor had been on his knees beside her for a long time, silent and watchful, when he felt Jodha’s hand on his shoulder. 

     “It’s nearly time,” she murmured. 

     He stared at her, then at the live monitor that showed the baby’s condition and position inside Clara in stark detail. The only thing he couldn’t see (yet) was the baby’s face, but with the force of another contraction she inched a little further down. Clara let out a low groan…and gasped. 

     “ _Oh_ ,” she breathed. “Jodha—Jodha, I think—I think—”

     “Her waters broke,” Jodha muttered. “Help me get her onto the bed.”

     The Doctor obeyed without a word. Clara breathed hard and fast now, her enormous eyes shot through with pain and exhaustion. While Jodha dashed to the other end of the room with her nurse, the Doctor leaned over Clara and stroked her hair back from her forehead. 

     “My Clara,” he whispered, running his thumb along her hairline. “When this is over I’ll take you somewhere wonderful, all right? You hold me to that.”

     Clara laughed weakly. “Nervous?”

     “A bit.”

     She swallowed and nodded. “I’m okay. Really. It just… _hurts_ …”

     He pressed his lips to her forehead and squeezed her hand just as Jodha and the nurse came back, both of them dressed in sterile robes.   

     “Nearly ready,” Jodha said, fastening a mask over her face. “You are in charge now, Clara—and you are more than capable of bringing your very own little one into the world. I’m merely here to help, all right? Trust yourself…and be brave.”

 

* * *

 

_“Trust yourself…and be brave.”_

     Clara had faced the Great Intelligence, Daleks, Cybermen, ghosts, Missy, Zygons, a Quantum Shade, and Rassilon himself, and she had never been this terrified. She wasn’t really in control, no matter what Jodha said. She could hardly think straight. But the pain _drove_ her now. There was no stopping this sudden, overwhelming urge to push this baby out of her with all her might. 

     _Let me be brave. Oh God, let me be brave!_

She heaved her upper body forward and bore down. She was vaguely aware of Jodha counting quietly to ten. She leaned back with a gasp. The Doctor clutched her hand. 

     “Perfect,” Jodha said. “Textbook.”

     “You can do this, Clara,” the Doctor whispered. “You’re doing _marvelous_ , my Clara…”

     Clara moaned and squeezed her eyes shut—and suddenly saw herself leaning out of the window at the Maitlands’ house, watching in amused confusion while a sweet-faced young man in a bow-tie rattled off all the messages she’d received while she slept off the WiFi’s unsuccessful assault on her mind. Another irresistible wave of pressure shattered the memory: she threw herself into it, grinding her teeth, willing herself _not_ to scream. 

     _I will not scream, I will not scream, I will not screa—_

“ _OH!!!_ ” she sobbed, falling back against the pillows. 

     “There’s the head,” Jodha called, bracing herself at the end of the bed. Clara bore down again, tried to sit up straighter. The Doctor placed a firm hand behind her back and she pushed, and pushed again. Her head felt like it might explode. She was fracturing, coming apart at the seams, _ripping_. 

     “One more!” Jodha cried. Even with the surgical mask on Clara could tell by her eyes that she was getting into the excitement of the moment. “Once more, Clara, and it’ll all be over! You can do this!” 

      Clara gasped for breath and nodded against the pillow. “I can do this…I can do this…”

     “ ‘Course you can,” the Doctor said firmly, cradling her hand in both of his. “You’re _almost_ there. Come on, Clara, don’t give in now!”

     She glanced at him. You’d think, looking at him, that they were in the middle of another hair-raising adventure and he was urging her to think clever, run fast, never give up, and never give in. The terrible pain overwhelmed her yet again; she sent him one quick nod, curled forward, and groaned. Jodha reached out, the Doctor sprang off his knees, the young assistant cried out in delight—

     And Clara fell back with a choking gasp as something small and warm and wet slipped out of her and into Jodha’s waiting hands, and a raspy, frightened, high-pitched wail echoed off the white walls. 

     “ _You did it!_ ” the Doctor shouted. “You did it, Clara!”

     Clara laughed breathlessly. Jodha held up a tiny, wriggling form in her gloved hands.

     “Congratulations,” she called over the baby’s squalling. “You have a daughter.”

     Clara half-laughed, half-sobbed and stretched out her hands; Jodha leaned over, laid the wailing baby on her chest. Clara didn’t care if the baby was still slimy or that she had a streak of blood in her dark, wet hair. She simply closed her shaking hands around the little one, unable to stop the tears from welling up in her eyes. 

     “Shh, shh, it’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay, baby-mine…I’m here…Mummy’s here…”

     The Doctor leaned over them both. Clara looked up. There was no missing ‘em now, the tears in _his_ eyes. She cupped his cheek in her palm; he responded by pressing his lips to her forehead. 

     “Clara,” he whispered, over and over again. “Clara, my Clara…”

     And as he spoke, the baby hiccupped and nuzzled her tiny, perfect face into Clara’s chest.

 

* * *

 

When Jodha finally settled his clean, blanket-bundled daughter into the crook of his arm for the first time, the Doctor actually felt weak in the knees. He reached up and ran his fingertip along the velvet curve of her cheek.

     “She’s beautiful,” Jodha murmured. “You should be proud.”

     “I am,” the Doctor rasped. He was mesmerized. The baby was still awake, her rosebud mouth slightly open and her long, delicate fingers opening and closing above the confines of the blanket. The way she stared at _him_ with such dazed wonderment and trust made him wonder if he might be dreaming. After all, he’d given up all hope of ever having this again a long, long time ago. He couldn’t have it with Rose or River—and for four and a half billion years he thought he would never have it with Clara. 

     And yet here he was with his daughter and Clara’s in his arms—and on Gallifrey, no less. 

     _What did I do to deserve this?_

“Doctor,” Clara called softly. “I know she’s yours too, but don’t hog her.”

     He looked up, saw her smiling wearily at him with her head against her pillows. She was absolutely beautiful, his strong, brave Clara. He hurried over and sat down on the bed beside her, carefully lifting the warm bundle into her arms. The joy and contentment that washed over her face as soon as she met the baby’s gaze was enough to make him wish he could indulge in another tear or two. 

     “Oh, Doctor,” Clara breathed, stroking the baby’s cheek. “She’s got your eyes!”

     He frowned, horrified. “No, she doesn’t! Look at how big they are! She’s got _your_ eyes!”

     Clara giggled. “Have you seen your eyes? They’re wide enough to give mine a run for their money.”

     He stared at her. “Why haven’t you ever mentioned it?”

     “Because you were always so busy commenting on mine, I could never get a word in edgewise! Besides,” Clara said, dropping her voice to a hushed whisper as she turned to the baby again, “hers are blue.”

     “Babies’ eyes change color.”

     “Hers won’t,” Clara said stubbornly. “I will admit, though, she’s certainly got my nose.”

     The Doctor touched the baby’s nose, smiling when she tilted her head back to follow his fingertip. Jodha approached the end of the bed and watched the new little family with unabashed affection.

     “Do you have a name for her yet?” she asked. 

     Clara looked up. “Actually…we’ve been talkin’ about naming her after both our mothers.”

     Jodha blinked, opened her mouth, and shut it again. The Doctor looked away quickly. He’d shown enough emotion for one day; he didn’t need to get choked up again at the sight of his mother absorbing the full weight of Clara’s suggestion. 

     “I—” Jodha stammered. “You would…you would name her for _me_?”

     “Neither of us would be here if it weren’t for you,” Clara said softly. 

     “Besides, Rassilon struck your old name from the annals of Time,” the Doctor added, his eyes still down. “What better way to undo that cruelty…than to give the new name you chose for yourself to our daughter?”

     He glanced up. His mother swallowed hard and blinked harder, but to his relief she just tilted her head back with a brave, gracious smile. Clara smiled back and ran her fingers through the baby’s soft hair. 

     “Jodha Elena Oswald-Smith,” she murmured. “A fine name for a Hybrid.”

     “Indeed,” Jodha said, stepping closer to get a better view of her namesake. “But I fear a name like mine might be rather conspicuous on your home planet.”

     “True…but a nickname might just do the trick.” Clara kissed the baby’s forehead and slipped a pinky-finger into her tiny grasping hand. “ _Jodie_. Jodie Oswald-Smith.”

     “Jodie,” the Doctor repeated. He stroked the baby’s hand with his thumb. “What do you say to a name like that, Little One?”

     Jodie cooed and tightened her feeble grip on Clara’s finger—and only the Doctor, who could speak baby, knew exactly what that soft, gurgling little sound meant. Clara sighed happily and leaned her head against the pillows. 

     “Thank you,” she whispered. 

     “For what?” the Doctor asked. 

     “For askin’ me to run away with you.”

     He smiled…and decided he didn’t care what his mother saw or heard. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Clara’s forehead.

     “Thank you for running away with me,” he whispered, “my Impossible Girl.”

 

* * *

 

_Well, it's all an adventure_

_That comes with a breathtaking view_

_Walking the tightrope with you_

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm a little giddy. I posted the first chapter of this story (my first Doctor Who fanfic) on a bit of whim, got such a positive response that I decided to write another chapter...and another...and another...until it turned into a full-blown novel-length story. And now I've finished it. WOW.
> 
> And you know what else? In the course of a year and a half I've technically written two novels--this one, and an original (much longer) sci-fi novel that I'm currently preparing for publication--and those two victories and YOUR wonderful comments and reviews have given me the confidence boost I desperately needed! Never underestimate the power of a kindly word, folks. 
> 
> Also: I thought of the Hybrid Baby's name while I was washing dishes one evening and I got SO excited that I almost screamed. This is my little salute to Jodie Whittaker, of course. I'm slowly crafting my Series 10 AU, and it's gonna take me some time to get it ready, but I am so looking forward to the Hybrid Baby's surprisingly important role!
> 
> All right, enough of my rambling. Once again, THANK YOU, and let's have three rousing cheers for Whouffaldi ;-)


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